Have you ever noticed that my use of capitals in blog titles is HIGHLY erratic?

I’ll throw in a capital out of nowhere, or suddenly go all lower-case without a single thought re: the fact that I capitalized the first letter of the seven words prior.

I could say this was indicative of my status as a free spirit, but really? I’m not paying that much attention.

Why?

Because this is the place I go to write for one of three reasons:

1. I have something to say.

2. We are in the midst of an occasion that requires me to say something.

3. My dad has indicated QUITE POINTEDLY that it has been MONTHS, I TELL YOU, MONTHS since I wrote on my blog, and why is he hitting ‘refresh’ to read the same post over and over? Because my dad? He loves me. In fact, every time he refreshes, he feels compelled to read whatever is… well… there. And no matter how brilliantly I may express myself? NOTHING I HAVE EVER WRITTEN REQUIRES MORE THAN TWO READINGS.

I think that covers it.

And really, no matter which reason is serving as my Muse de Jour (did you gag when you read that? Me too) I am still sloppy as hell here because it may well be the only place I can be sloppy anymore. Other than… well… when I eat. And that’s not really a matter of “can be,” it’s more a matter of “is.”

After all, PEOPLE PAY ME TO WRITE STUFF.

And if they want Full Title Case or cool, minimalist lower-case or ‘Chiller’ font, well… I better damn well deliver exactly what they’re paying for.

Anyway.

I’m thinking of writing more. About whatever. Whenever. Or every day. Whichever comes first.

Today’s topic?

Culinary adventures. And why mine are going by the wayside.

Tonight I am making a roasted (baked? what is the difference between roasted and baked? I mean, you PUT IT IN THE OVEN AND HOPE FOR THE BEST) chicken breast with boiled Yukon Gold potatoes (not actual gold that you can use to back up currency, mind you, I’ve tried), asparagus and bernaise sauce.

Impressed? Me too.

My mom taught me the wonders of a good bernaise, though I have to admit I follow the Barefoot Contessa recipe now, and not my mother’s. I don’t know why I rejected my mother’s version in favour of SOME STRANGER’S take on a classic, but I think it has something to do with the use of a blender, and my tendency to enjoy being barefoot.

I honestly love making whole meals — meals with a protein, sides, and some sort of fun spice or angle. I love experimenting with ingredients and trying to refine classic recipes.

I used to lecture my friends — friends who ate frozen Jenny Craig dinners and guys who ordered in pizza every night — about the satisfaction of cooking for one. Properly cooking, that is. Buying good ingredients, preparing things properly, and putting something of value into your belly.

They would say to me, “But MEG. Cooking for one is a bore. Well, cooking is a bore, but at least I can justify it if I have company, or a loved one, or some sort of captor who is keeping me hostage in a kitchen and looks peckish.”

I would respond, “NO. THAT’S SILLY. You deserve to eat good food when you are all on your own, just the same as you might when you host a dinner party or a fugitive from justice.”

They were never really persuaded.

And suddenly, I get where they were coming from.

When I go to Boston to see Gradon, or Gradon is here, cooking becomes an act of love, not just an act of sustenance.

I make things I know he’ll enjoy, and/or things he wouldn’t cook (because he wouldn’t take the time, or didn’t know how) for himself. I get excited to plan a menu and know that I’ll have a truly appreciative audience waiting at the end of a fork.

Yay!

But now, when I come home, and it’s Just Meg eating dinner, things have become a little more lacklustre. A little more ‘meh.’

In other words, once you own a restaurant where people give their compliments to the chef, or you cook for a table full of hungry folks, it seems a bit lonely to enjoy something all by yourself (although I always manage to eat it all. FUNNY HOW THAT IS.)

I still get enough gumption up for Gourmet, but more often than not — even as I deglaze a pan or roast a fat head of garlic — I’m just wishing he was here to eat whatever I had going on… even if it’s just a bag of chips and some salsa.

My plan is to be cooking for him full time in the late-winter, early-spring of next year (which involves a lot of details and kismet and whatnot, but let’s not fuss about that tonight.)

I already have menus in mind.

That could make me sad, I suppose.

But if I’m honest with myself, that — even if I am eating alone — makes everything taste better.