Women Are Suckers for Men Who Cook

It’s not that guys do a lot of cooking for their dates, wives or girlfriends.  Mostly they just say they will cook dinner for you.  The invite is merely a ploy to get you in their house so that they can eat a home cooked meal.

I can attest to this fact.

There was The Grillmeister who didn‘t have enough propane in the tank and had no Plan B for cooking.  Fortunately I had brought the wine.

Mr. Pasta hadn’t mastered the art of boiling water, nor did he know how long to cook said pasta.  Fortunately he knew his limitations and did not attempt making sauce from scratch.  Heating the sauce from a jar was an extra culinary lesson.

The Stewman gets half a point for credit.  He was one of three guys renting a house and it was his night to cook.  Stew rates half a point since it is synonymous with Cleaning Out the Fridge.  Just put everything you can find into a pot, heat and serve.  Voilá.  Dinner.

Which brings us to Mr. T.  Mr. T was the comic relief in our arrangement of one apartment, three girls, one guy.  He let us know when he moved in that he did not cook – for himself or anyone else.  He subsisted on takeout of subs, pizza and burgers.  This does not mean, however, that he did not enjoy or want freshly made food – like steak or eggs or chicken.  He would saunter into the kitchen while one of us was cooking, grab himself a beverage, sit at the table and start casual conversation until we‘d finally take pity on him and say “Would you like some of this?”.  “Oh God. I thought you‘d never ask!  I‘ll set the table.”

One day Mr. T got the yen for chocolate pudding and was confident he could cook it himself.  After all, it was just empty a package of mix into a pot and add milk.  And that’s exactly what he did.  I had been out when he attempted this culinary delight.  When I got home Miss L was laughing that Ms. L was on a rampage about Mr. T buying her a new pot.  Mr. T had managed to burn the pudding and the pot since he stirred the pudding mixture once then let it sit on the stove God knows how long.

Could it really be so bad?  Soak the pot with warm water, scour with some Brillo or SOS.  I went into the kitchen to check out the pot.  It wasn‘t in the sink.  Mr. T pulled it out of the garbage pail…Perhaps if we had put the pot in the freezer overnight we might have been able to pop out a truly enormous hockey puck that could be used as a doorstop, but no amount of soaking or scrubbing would have saved that pot.

A few weeks passed, when on my way out one evening I found Mr. T at the stove – with one of my pots – in another attempt at making pudding.  I gasped.  He assured me not to worry, he had learned his lesson and I need not fear for my pot.  I came home through the back and found the pot soaking in the sink – unburnt.  In the fridge was a Pyrex filled with pudding that was chilling.  It looked as if Mr. T had mastered pudding.

The next day I opened the fridge for a glass of iced tea and noticed the pan of pudding was gone.  Ms. L was washing dishes.  Mr. T ate all the pudding already?  She started laughing.  She laughed so hard she doubled over.  She doubled over so far her head was at the bottom of the sink.  Inquiring minds wanted to know the joke.  Apparently Mr. T was so paranoid about burning the pudding and another pot that he failed to thoroughly cook the pudding.  And so, the second batch had to be thrown out.

For weeks afterward, we would chant “We want pudding!  We want pudding!” every time Mr. T appeared.  He went and hid in his bedroom  Until one day, when he got the yen for pancakes…

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