Cooking takes practice. My instincts are off, due to having just two of us here. No longer in full bloom, we don't eat as much as we used to. In the past I cooked dinner every night except on Gino's Pizza two for Tuesday nights, a marvellous family-oriented Athens, West Virginia, tradition.
Today, cooking even two nights a week feels monumental, a victory for healthy living, and respectful of the vegetables that would otherwise melt or mold in the refrigerator bin. And so when I burned the asparagus last week while distracting myself with NYT word games, I realized that my skills had atrophied, and the answer was to cook more often.
This week I sauteed a new batch of fresh asparagus, folded it into beaten eggs, and called it a frittata. In a creative moment, I decided to bake it with a top crust of breadcrumbs. That didn't work so well either (too dry), but it was tolerable, especially with a splash of salsa and a spread of mayonnaise. Besides, Bob is a generous man who eats what I offer as long as I keep the cilantro out of it. I don't think he'll leave me for a better cook. Still, he may miss the cook I once was.
My Tiny Career
