I like to consider myself a decent cook. I’m no chef—that’s my brother who actually does cook food for a living. I’m not even my friend Rob who, while not a professional, is pretty fucking good. No, what I am is a guy who likes to eat, knows how to read and turn on a stove, and can make a few dishes well, and many dishes decently.
That all said, more often than not I’m cooking for myself. I have my own particular preferences–almost everything I make has one or more of the following attributes: spicy, Italian, soup, stew. So, when I do get the chance to cook for someone outside of myself, it’s always that rare combination of excitement and nervousness. Happy that I’ll get a chance to show, nervous that it’ll come out terribly and (worse yet) the person will be forced to lie about it.
We all know the liars. Hell, we’ve all been the liars. Mmmm, this is delish*… Yeah… I’d love some more. Of course, the less experienced among us will make it easier for the cook to figure out, but the point is, there’s no denying when someone really can’t get enough.
Every year (for the past few), I have a bunch of my pals over to my apartment and make a huge pot of sauce and meatballs, all from scratch. Not every single person scarfs it down, but there’s a few (one guy in particular) who would eat the plate if they were allowed.
Especially when it’s a recipe you’ve made for years, passed down from your dad’s grandmother to your mother to you… That’s a great feeling.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: I’d quote Sugar Hill gang, but you might as well hear them do it for you. It’s being this friend.
*Why am I saying delish? I never say delish. I hate myself as much as I hate this food.