What I'm saying: "I don't understand people who use recipes."
What I'm saying: "I'm so fucking great, and those morons who rely on recipes are wasting my precious time and my precious space on this planet. You know how I roll? I just walk into any kitchen like I own the place, put on a blindfold, pick out some ingredients, do some crazy shit, and BANG, amazing meal, done. Don't thank me yet, though. Because whenever I clean the dishes, I inadvertently discover the cure for a major disease. Now, who wants some fucking brilliant carnival squash with a maple-glazed winter grain salad and a side of NO MORE AIDS?!?!"
My ego never shuts up these days.
He's the reason why I don't:
Like recipes.
Check the weather.
Use instruction manuals.
But I've got this picture, you know, this picture in my head, and I think I've been imagining it since I was seven years-old.
(Seven is the age of reason, according to the Catholic Church.)
It's me, and I'm forty-five years-old, and I'm alone, and I'm crouching over a busted Kenmore washing machine, and I'm in tears because I don't know what the hell I'm doing, and I've never felt so impotent in my entire life, or maybe just since the last time I tried to fix something, anything, really.
And then I wonder which scenario is worse:
The one in which I'm despairing because I've thrown the instruction manual away.
Or the one in which it's sitting on the counter, but I'm too damn proud to reach for it.
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