But you should see how I order a pizza!

I take the prize in many areas for Best Girlfriend Ever and would probably even be a good choice for a housewife, if that was truly my calling — you know, save for my arachnophobia and the watering of plants above my reach and my preference for truffles, not Bon Bons.

But what lends very little to my contribution to a successful relationship is my cooking.

My parents are good cooks. They seem to regularly eat well when planned, and I’ve seen my mom make grand Thanksgiving feasts like none other. Yet, somehow I was raised to love macaroni in a box (with ketchup!) and peanut butter by the spoonful. “But I know how to bake,” is my eternal excuse (I really do, and that is because it is an EXACT way of making food, not nibbling and seasoning and playing with, well, fire).

I am just as content with eating white rice covered in yellow mustard and egg noodles blended with mayonnaise — or sour cream, depending on the refrigerator contents — as I am eating at any of the local amazing restaurants (which is why I have chosen not the foodie blogger route). I eat scrambled eggs nearly every day, sometimes formed into a sandwich because THAT’S ALL I KNOW. I make grilled cheese with the toaster, then the microwave — not awesomely in the griddle pan on the stove top like AB.

It’s how I survived for my turbulent years as a single woman. That, and those no-wonder-I-gained-30-pounds promotions of Pizza Pan’s BOGO infamy. That buffalo chicken pizza was the hottest, most bomb-diggity pizza ever. EVER.

Which leads to my sad, underfed — nee starving — boyfriend. He travels weekly for work, which forces meals of the room service variety and local bars, and once home, I expect him to cook for me like he used to. Every. Single. Meal. I ate very well then, before his Pittsburgh came calling. Now, I’m back to my own kitchen casualties of making horrible choices and trying new things that never quite work. I can no longer have perfectly-grilled cheese sandwiches or remotely even cook chicken properly… OK. Maybe once.  I do not realize the difference between sage and basil for a simple pasta salad for a potluck. My diet has resorted to eggs. Sandwiches. Ice cream. Cereal. Cat food. Oh wait… Ew.

I impress myself even when I can make a beef gyro or roast radishes. These are all flukes. I have figured out how to make a variety of salad dressings, but too lazy to cut up all those vegetables to make giant salads on a regular basis.

Did you catch the part where I didn’t realize until AFTER I MADE MY PASTA SALAD that I used sage. It tasted like old feet, but I served it to my girlfriends all, “Mmmm. Pasta Salad. Fresh. Light. No mayo base. EAT IT, bitches! I play roller derby. Grrr!”

So, the boyfriend is too tired to cook dinner, which is completely understandable, and what do I have to offer him?

Nachos.

Chips. Melted cheese. Salsa. Sour cream. My dinner of choice for nearly four years of my life.

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