I suppose, were I an arrogant man, I might say my breakfast frittata, made with Spanish spices and the secret ingredient of love, was a stroke of culinary genius. Much like the previous night's supper of three bean, barely, and rice stew with a dash of Indian spices and west African peppercorns, known as Grains of Paradise. However, I am not an arrogant man. Be that as it may, my breakfast frittata was still rather good. I resolve to make it again.
I learned how to cook fairly early on. My father taught me quite a bit under the auspice of knowing how to cook so I'd never need a fucking woman. Perhaps that was one of the seeds of my wanting to be self-sufficient, or at least unintentional encouragement in that direction. I'll never know for sure, though I like to theorize. But that's another tangent for another time.
Over time, cooking for me became a little bit more than just putting food in my belly. It became a source of enjoyment and adventure. Something, which sometimes, almost bordered upon art. A way to travel the world by virtue of spices and preparations. I once read that the way a culture expresses itself through its cooking is one of the reasons to be alive, and I truly do believe that.
Although, I shrink from the idea of being a foodie. Perhaps some of that is my hatred of labels of any sort. Maybe it's because as much as I enjoy cooking and different recipes from different parts of the world, it strikes me there is so much I don't know. The same could be said about anything that interests me; my ignorance of the subject far outweighs any knowledge I might have. So it goes.
Ironically, I weigh, at the most, one-hundred fifty pounds, but sometimes drop as low one-hundred thirty. At a height of almost six and half feet tall, this borders upon emaciated. And yet, I am in great health. When I have spoken of cooking and my enjoyment of food, I have gotten the looks of shock, awe, and disgust at my famine victim build. I just shrug at the circumstance. It's not like I asked for this.
Chicken, marinating in spices, gets in the proper context for dinner. I'll be making a salad with orange and nuts as an accompaniment. Maybe some cracked bulgar too. Wine, I think, would go nicely, although I've yet to decide between red or white. We both loves us our reds, but I do realize some meals speak more of whites. I don't worry too much about it, given that supper is still a few hours off and I have plenty of time to decide.