I have four cookbooks from the library that I keep renewing with the hope that I will indeed prepare something. Cooking with Avocados, Sensational Salads, The Naked Veggie Burger, and The Skinny Slow Cooker.
I read them like I do poems, a few at a time. Poems impassion me. Cookbooks cause me to salivate. I think to write the ingredients down so I can shop. It’s like thinking to bring a dollar bill with me to work so I have something to put into the candy machine. How can I justify spending fifteen dollars on a particular spice that I will only use for this one recipe? That’s fifteen candy bars. It seems a much better pay off than actually making something to bring to work. If the recipe calls for thirty dollars worth of ingredients, isn’t Subway the better option?
Mostly, I think I don’t want to spend the time cooking. I’d rather linger over the keyboard, type the word “the” and wonder what the “the” proceeds. The goat coughed up the golf ball on the green, allowing it to roll for a hole in one. That is more interesting than tossing a salad for five minutes, later commenting “I ate the mushrooms, pushing the croutons to the side.
The library books are checked out for three weeks and can be renewed six times. They become something I have to dust when dusting the house. The intention is to cook. The intention is to not waste time. Maybe I’ll start with eggs in the morning. No recipe required and it takes one minute to fry. But then I need to consider the dishes I’ll have to wash. Time. Probably, I will stick with my bagel smeared with butter and orange marmalade. The only thing to wash would be a butter knife.