I don’t really enjoy cooking. It’s only fun if you are cooking for more than one person (the extra people should be people you actually like, otherwise it is still no fun). So tonight, because there was an amazing man making my house smell like testosterone and sex appeal, I broke out the pots and pans.
London had picked out pork in some form that I did not recognize (to be fair I can only identify bacon, pepperoni, and pork chops). I let him know that I did not mind cooking it, but he might mind having to eat it when I was done. So into the kitchen he came to finish up with his meat while I finished the sides and my main dish.
It was a nice sit down meal (at the table, which might be the first time I’ve ever eaten at the table since moving into the house over a year ago). The pork came out well. The potatoes were fabulous. The rolls were warm and buttery. The corn tasted like death.