sitting shotgun in my pop's parked car, idling in front of my first home away from home, the final send-off was emotional. while the encouraging words were terse, my father's glassy eyes and tight throat spoke volumes. leaving the nest was way easier than witnessing the loss, i suspected. i watched our family car disappear into the dark, heading toward our family home, and the gravity of the moment sunk in. taking a deep breath, i turned to face my new foray into independence, and walked up the steps to my future.
my family away from family greeted me in the foyer, clad in pyjamas and grooving to show tunes. so far, so different. i ascended the staircase to my assigned bedroom, and a waft of home cooking stopped me in my tracks. how fortunate to arrive to housemates who were capable of preparing a proper meal, since i would have merely ventured to the nearest pizza parlour.
the chefs soon announced that dinner would be served, and i was delighted to be seated at a legitimate dining room table adorned with fixings for fajitas. the tex-mex cuisine was gourmet to me, when i was unaware of how to cook chicken, let alone chop vegetables or even warm up a tortilla. the grub was perfectly complimented by a cerveza, and since i planned to hit the sack at my discretion, i embraced the privilege of living on my own.
reality sunk in quick. warm supper did not magically appear the subsequent evening, nor evermore. rather than attempt to follow a recipe or collect ingredients, i was content to shop for crap empty on nutrients but full of gratification. my breakfasts consisted of pop tarts or lucky charms, junk my parents avoided at all costs. in a pinch, the legendary mr. pong's delivered a monosodium glutamate-laden artery-clogging dinner.
my meals in my college days could hardly be considered sustenance, since most of the substances passed right through me or grew as fatty deposits. within weeks, my malnourished system screamed for vitamins, and thus my crash course in self-sufficiency reached an obvious conclusion: learn to cook, or return to the 'burbs.
flash forward twelve years, and the domesticity process is almost complete. my morning activities are dominated by resetting the kitchen for another day of chef duties. as the house husband, i meticulously clean each dish and cutlery item and tidy the counter accoutrements. the introduction of a new scrubby brush actually provides joy. there is also a sense of pride and accomplishment when succeeding at loading the dishwasher with a series of tetris-style stacking techniques. even wiping grease from the oven is akin to a spiritual cleanse.
to think that i'm the same chap who once shared an apartment with three other lads, where the kitchen was virtually uninhabited for the year we lived there. cobwebs literally hung under the cupboards, and there wasn't even a light bulb in the fixture. simply a large room to house a fridge full of take-out leftovers and liquor, it was square footage forgotten.
no longer. now, the liquor is next to the fresh vegetables.
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