I love to cook, but sometimes it really is. I always insist that cooking is the most fun for me, & that I rather be the one doing it, & this is all absolutely true...but when last Sunday night Owen insisted that I sit at the kitchen table & get some shit done & drink a glass of wine & eat chips (Tostitos With A Hint Of Lime left behind by temporary housemate Dennis) & salsa (Green Mountain Gringo), & that he was cooking with no help from me so just shut up Liz, it was an amazing feeling. I think this is exaggerated by the fact that the absolute last time anyone cooked for me was Rin's fabulous margarita cupcakes on my birthday, & before that the last time I visited Mum in Brewster & ate delicious leftovers. & the fact that we didn't eat all day of course & I was all typically stressed out & starving.
I drew this on the phone. Owen cooking at 133.
what Owen made: shells, kidney beans, garlic, cheese, I didn't make it so I don't really know but it tasted good.
What I love most about cooking is feeding the people I love. It's nice to experience the other angle of that feeling too.
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