For the first time since I moved into my new Chicago apartment (nearly a year ago), I actually cooked food in my kitchen this morning. Not that I hadn't eaten before, of course, it's just that it was all salads, sammiches, protein shakes, and stuff warmed in the microwave. Anyone who knows me knows I can't cook for crap, and don't really care to learn, at least not yet. I'm sure eventually I will, like when Hell gets a Coke machine and
pigs fly spaceships (or I grow up, whichever is more likely).
But today I actually used my stove, to make some cheesy scrambled eggs. My new weight training regime (three months strong) has me craving protein something fierce, and since I'm a little tired of tuna at the moment, I thought I'd go the other cheap protein route, and cracked open a few dead chicken fetuses.
The gas stove is a new concept for me. In my former life in Indiana, I did a lot of housesitting for people with huge, amazing kitchens, including what I now understand to be the gold standard of accoutrements: Viking stoves, Sub Zero freezers, wine cellars, and so on. Sure, they had beautiful gas stoves, but I never used them. Why would I, when there was satellite TV, science magazines begging for me to read them, wireless internet to noodle around on, and puppies and ponies to play with? Plus, when you cook, you have to clean up afterward, and I hate that.
When I first moved into my apartment, I started stacking stuff up on my stove, fully intending to use it as simply more storage space (which my oven has also become). Then I noticed the things I was putting on it were getting warm. I called my brother and asked him if it was normal for the stove to be a giving off a little heat even when all the burners were turned off. He laughed at me and said "Do you not know what a pilot light is, Little Miss Yahoo?" He thought this was especially hilarious since he'd visited me during many housesitting gigs, and taken great time marveling over the marble this, the customized that, the blah blah blah gas stove blah. "Have you really never used a gas stove?" This stung my pride, so I hung up on him, and googled "pilot light." Ah, yes. I get it now.
And as I sit here blogging, those eggs settling nicely into my tummy and soon to become the building blocks for my newly built muscles, I can only think one thing...dang, that pan is full of crusty eggy mess, and I don't want to clean it.
For the first time since I moved into my new Chicago apartment (nearly a year ago), I actually cooked food in my kitchen this morning. Not that I hadn't eaten before, of course, it's just that it was all salads, sammiches, protein shakes, and stuff warmed in the microwave. Anyone who knows me knows I can't cook for crap, and don't really care to learn, at least not yet. I'm sure eventually I will, like when Hell gets a Coke machine and pigs fly spaceships (or I grow up, whichever is more likely).
But today I actually used my stove, to make some cheesy scrambled eggs. My new weight training regime (three months strong) has me craving protein something fierce, and since I'm a little tired of tuna at the moment, I thought I'd go the other cheap protein route, and cracked open a few dead chicken fetuses.
The gas stove is a new concept for me. In my former life in Indiana, I did a lot of housesitting for people with huge, amazing kitchens, including what I now understand to be the gold standard of accoutrements: Viking stoves, Sub Zero freezers, wine cellars, and so on. Sure, they had beautiful gas stoves, but I never used them. Why would I, when there was satellite TV, science magazines begging for me to read them, wireless internet to noodle around on, and puppies and ponies to play with? Plus, when you cook, you have to clean up afterward, and I hate that.
When I first moved into my apartment, I started stacking stuff up on my stove, fully intending to use it as simply more storage space (which my oven has also become). Then I noticed the things I was putting on it were getting warm. I called my brother and asked him if it was normal for the stove to be a giving off a little heat even when all the burners were turned off. He laughed at me and said "Do you not know what a pilot light is, Little Miss Yahoo?" He thought this was especially hilarious since he'd visited me during many housesitting gigs, and taken great time marveling over the marble this, the customized that, the blah blah blah gas stove blah. "Have you really never used a gas stove?" This stung my pride, so I hung up on him, and googled "pilot light." Ah, yes. I get it now.
And as I sit here blogging, those eggs settling nicely into my tummy and soon to become the building blocks for my newly built muscles, I can only think one thing...dang, that pan is full of crusty eggy mess, and I don't want to clean it.
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