As I stand in front of the open fridge, for the third time today, I wonder how many women go through the same ritual .
You know the drill–open the door, bend slightly at the waist and peer inside, hoping that at the very least, one of the vegetables will talk to you and say, “Cook me! Cook me!”
God, I hate cooking.
Or maybe I should change that to “God, I hate cooking in this kitchen.”
Gone are the days when I used to own a kitchen with counter space, a two-door refrigerator with ice maker and a double sink. Nowadays, I’m reduced to a normal-sized refrigerator, one sink and enough counter space to prop an egg.
But I digress.
The reality is that this kitchen and the contents of this refrigerator do not motivate me to cook.
Instead, I want to call Domino’s and take the guess-work out of the entire process.
But just how much pizza can a family ingest before cloning themselves into the Klumps?
We’re very close to finding out.
And so, I force myself to toil with the possibility of making a “nutritious” meal.
However, that’s hard to do when all I can think of is a genie granting me the wish of a refrigerator that not only houses perishable food items, but also programs a menu, makes a food list, and calls the grocery store to have the food delivered.
My next wish would then be that it was Javier Bardem who would whip up the meal.
Cause there’s nothing sexier than
Javier Bardem a man who can cook.
Or a refrigerator who can do all the aforementioned tasks.
But is this our reality, sisters?
Instead, we’re punished with the chore of carrying out “the appraisal,” as I call it, day after day.
In all honesty, every time I do “the appraisal,” a part of me secretly hopes I will make contact with aliens.
Maybe they can carry out the meal planning.
Eggs, milk, butter, a few moldy vegetables, half a pack of bacon, a half eaten energy bar, a full bag of spinach leaves that has been here since I moved in, and half a bottle of orange juice.
I stare at the contents one more time, close my eyes, and hum in the attempt to channel Betty Crocker.
One minute, two minutes, three minutes…nada.
Okay, didn’t work.
I’ll try again tomorrow.
Tonight, China Palace will have to do the honors.