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Mind Of Man: Modern Men Know How To Cook

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Men know how to cook, because we have the right incentive to cook. Once upon a time, when men were men and women were women and men were cartoon gorillas and women were porcelain princesses, the man made money and the woman made casseroles. Men stayed out of the kitchen, and women stayed out of the workplace. 

But times change. For instance: in the 1960s, people drove their car from the suburbs to an office building in the city. Today, we fly in jet packs from blimp cities to subterranean bunkers deep beneath the scorched earth. Also, women are working more and cooking less, and men are working less and cooking more. But let me be clear, we’re cooking because it impress the hell out of women. Are women too easily impressed? Maybe. 

This is evolution. Man is adapting in order to get you naked. I’m assuming everyone reading this is a woman. If not, then, it’s just literary technique, bro. Sharing a meal has always been away to facilitate intimacy between two people. Going out to dinner is still a great way to get to know someone. Cooking dinner, however, is a dinner date as performance art. Come over and swoon while I nourish you with the results of my care and labor. 

If you come over to my place, I’ll make you my speciality — a spinach and goat cheese salad with glazed walnuts and roast organic chicken with baked pears. All the ingredients are local, of course. I bought them at the Farmers Market.

I’ll just whip it up. No big deal. If you’re a vegetarian, I’d be happy to bang out an arugula salad with parmesan-lemon vinagrette and curried cauliflower and kale with basmati rice. I could also make gnocchi, and you could help, and hey, isn’t it sexy how I knead, roll, and dimple the pasta dough? Shhhhh, yes, yes it is. A little sage and butter and blammo.  I warn you, though, that desert will be Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby, two spoons. This is the dinner I can make you. If you get lucky, it’ll be banana pancakes or poached eggs and spaghetti squash hash browns in the morning.

If this sounds pretty amazing, it’s because it is totally amazing. My cooking skills suggest that I’m domestic, sensual, and worldly. Which is why you should sleep with me. Look, I’m not trying to sexually harass you. I’m just trying to make a point. Besides, I’m in a pretty intense relationship with my new iPad, right now.

It used to be that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, and that might still be true. But most single men know that the way to a woman’s sexual chakra is likewise through her stomach. It’s like a woman’s lips and taste buds are micro-erogenous zones. Being able to cook is a must for any man who wants to, you know, bite ankle. 

Now, I’m no foodie. Sometimes I want to shake my foodie friends and shout “FOOD IS JUST FUTURE POOP.” I live in New York, so I know from pork belly and sea urchin. I learned to cook because I will never be able to afford a sports car or a slick condo with floor to ceiling windows overlooking a park. 

I know so many women who claim they don’t know how to cook. Which makes me smile. I used to cook with my mom, so I’ve always known the very basics, like boiling water, chopping, and baking. When I have cooked for women I’m dating, they’re always very complimentary and gush and ask how I learned how to cook. I usually just shrug. “I’m a prodigy, I guess. The Mozart of Turkey Meatballs!” I don’t tell them where I learned how to cook. It’s my secret. But I’ll share it with you.

You see, the meals I prepare are already written down. That’s right. There are instructions, or “recipes.” Somebody else has written down what ingredients to buy, how to prepare them, and then how to cook them. I have a good cutting board, a good knife, a cast iron skillet and a giant pot and a couple of other essential implements. The night before, I practice the dish, following the recipe to the letter. I eat it. Then I do it again the next day. I don’t like to bake, because that entails too much math and at heart, I am a finger painter. 

Of course, once you leave, I barely cook anything. I eat Hamburger Helper out of the skillet over my sink. I snack on cold hot dogs. I might, if I’m feeling fancy, mix Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Chex with Vanilla Soy Milk. Mostly, I just nuke shit. I love your burritos, Amy. 

Sharing food is comforting and bonding and potentially erotic. I will tell you the best meal I ever made for a la-a-a-ady. It during a blizzard. The boiler was having a nervous breakdown. The snow was deep and the wind was mean. We huddled under blankets under a halo of warmth cast by a space heater. I hadn’t gone shopping before the storm and we both thought it was wise to wait until the storm had passed before pretending I was on the planet Hoth. I made us both cups of hot tea and peanut butter and honey sandwiches on my last two slices of wheat bread, one slice being the unloved end of the loaf. Man, that was delicious.

Hey! Why not friend John on Facebook? Or even better, follow his narcissistic musings on ye olde Twitter.

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