I’ve been on a cream of chicken kick. I have been cooking everything with cream of chicken. It’s not even because cream of chicken is very good. It seems to be more of a result of living an effectively single life, if only in theory and not in reality. Ok, it’s not that bad — those of you who knew me in graduate school saw how I lived, and my place is really impressive now compared to those days, even if my eating habits haven’t followed suit.
“How can you eat that?” A said. “It’s all one flavor.” I can inexplicably, for long periods of time, tolerate the same flavor in my food if I have enough other activities in my life to enable me to forget that my food is all the same flavor. It’s not like my men, in whom I require great variety. And if K even dares to come along and say “What do you mean, all your men are white,” I’m going to respond “All your women are asian,” and we’ll leave it at that.
I think perhaps at times I am not food motivated. This is not to say I don’t like to eat; in fact, the small amount of modeling I did confirmed that I really like to eat, especially after a three day fast so I could photograph well wearing a bikini in an office park.
I’ve trained a lot of animals (yes, this is related). Animals tend to be, overall, highly food motivated, just like many people I know. Food motivated animals are easy to train. As long as they know the reward involves something edible, they will go to the ends of the earth for you. The non-food motivated animals were something altogether different. I had this border collie mix I used to take care of, and food did not convince her. In fact, she often refused her regular dinner and sometimes didn’t even show much enthusiasm for gravy coated dog snacks. Getting her to do what you wanted mostly involved delicate emotional coercion and canine brainwashing. If she thought for a second you didn’t like her or something she did, she became irate and impossible. If you were too overbearing, she’d run and hide in her crate until you went away. While I’m not trying to say I am anything like this animal, I guess you can draw your own conclusions.
I used to cook all the time. In Pittsburgh I even baked a lot, which dabbles dangerously near a level of domesticity I don’t even like to think about. I still don’t wear an apron, but there were days last summer when I was unemployed and out of school that I baked so many pounds of brownies, cookies, and banana nut bread that I probably should have watched my step in that department.
The latest is that Superstar suggested we cook our own giant Thanksgiving dinner just for ourselves this November, right here in my under stocked kitchen, and my guess is he won’t let me cook the whole thing with cream of chicken. Is it a disgrace to admit that you’ve never cooked an entire Thanksgiving meal yourself before? I’ve boiled corn. I’ve purchased apple pie. All signs point to me throwing down my polo mallet and hockey stick to frantically drive to my mother’s house every weekend from now until November, trying to learn to cook a turkey with some respectability. I’ve also received some not so subtle hints about remedying my lack of a television “issue,” and instructions on how not to cut my hair short, ever again, till an asteroid hits the earth bringing on the second ice age and the earth then crashes into the sun, neutralizing the whole problem. Now what’s going on here? You’d think we were dating or something. Er, I think that’s supposed to be a secret, so don’t tell anyone you read it on this web page that apparently pops up on Google by searching for damn near anything.
