Monday, June 4, 2012

Summer, Summer, Summertimeeee

The restaurant has changed over to its summer menu and décor, and now all I want to do is eat everything that the chef makes.  There is something about summery food—yummy salads, fried clams, corn-on-the-cob, ice cream—that makes my stomach holler for joy.  There is a similar experience for fall foods, like pumpkin bisque, but then it’s more like a warm, contented grumble.

Your mouth is watering, right?

Ever since I moved to New York, I’ve have been saying that I ought to cook more.  In Connecticut, I used to cook and bake all the time.  I love doing it; it is very calming and enjoyable, and then at the end of it, I get a smug feeling of success when what I made looks just like the picture in the cookbook and tastes delicious. 

But I have the ugliest kitchen in New York.  And living with three guys does NOT help the situation.  How can I feel like the Barefoot Contessa or Rachel Ray when I am staring at (miniscule) countertops with various layers of grease and beer stains?  I once made my boyfriend a chicken pot pie (he ate the entire thing) but every two minutes, I had to stop what I was doing to attack something with Lysol.  Now that we are renewing our lease, I am thinking of becoming a kitchen Nazi, with a chore chart and surveillance cameras.  All of my roommates are on board, because there is a very real chance that there is a messy kitchen elf sneaking into our apartment at night...

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