Cooking as a Germaphobe

I am a germaphobe.  There, I said it.

That means if I’m ever at a restaurant with you, no, I will not be comfortable sharing that fine bowl of soup, especially if it’s the non-creamy kind.

R and I were supposed to make dinner today, but because of some miscommunication, we ended up not having all the ingredients.  So what did we do?  Improvised, of course.  “Oh!  I have apples.  And an orange.  And greens that need to be eaten..  and a sprouted potato… uhh yeah throwing that away..”  “I have blackberries!”  “I have linguine.. or spaghetti.. whatever this is, umm and butter, and white wine!”  “I have onions!”  “Ok we can just make pasta and salad?”  “Wait but do you need a protein?”  “I have leftover mussels from yesterday so that works, we can just throw that in.”  So we did.  We worked on our respective ingredients.  “It smells so good!”  The problem was, that after we put the butter with the onions and I poured in maybe way too much white wine (“Do you think that’s too much?”  “Nahh.  I think I used that much last time.  I’ve made it twice!” *holds up wine bottle for proportion gauging*), we tried the onions and well, they were oddly, sour.  I promptly freak out.  R asks, “Is it supposed to be sour?”  And I’m of course like, “I don’t think so…  Uh oh…. They taste weird!”  So the rest of the night before the soup was done was punctuated with “Do you think something was bad?  Maybe it’s just the wine.  Maybe… wait hold on…”  “Was the butter bad?” R hypothesizes.  We try the other batch of onion that had been stir-fried in butter.  “These taste fine though…”  says R.  I’m still not convinced.  “How long have you had the butter?”  “Um…… I can’t remember….. since the beginning of the year?”  “Uhhhh”  I flounce over to my computer and start Googling, commonly known in the psychological world as “Seeking Reassurance”.  R happily chomps away.  “How long does butter last in the fridge?”  I get a multitude of answers ranging from weeks to months.  Salted butter lasts much longer than unsalted.  I have unsalted butter.  Uh oh.  R is still chomping down on her meal.  “Maybe it’s just the wine.”  We then taste test the white wine (Yes I let R have a spoonful of it even though she’s underage, is that bad?) and I think to myself, “Hm, this tastes a lot better than I imagined it to.”  R says “I think it’s the wine, it has a sour aftertaste”  “Maybe….”  “If I feel sick tomorrow we’ll know why!”  R chews happily away.  I still feel uneasy so I toss the second half of my pasta and try to finish the salad.  Then we proceed to finish making our butternut squash soup.  “Should we rinse the onions?”  “I don’t know…. I guess….”  R proceeds to rinse the onions.  I say ouch a few times as we scoop out the roasted squash, and wince as I try to wash a tupperware lid without splashing on myself (they have weird ridges!).  We scoop the soup paste into a blender to make it smooth (I gingerly shove it in and try not to spill).  In the end, the butternut squash soup was a success documented by R’s trusty phone camera.

Cooking.  It makes me feel dirty, and if my ingredients aren’t absolutely fresh, I tend to go on paranoid Google searches.  “R, how do I get myself to like cooking more?” and then a few seconds later, “What should we make next?”  (Yeah okay I don’t really hate cooking).  I’m so embarrassed.

The second funny thing of the day was that the B suggested he wear bells so that I’m better prepared for when he comes in because every time he says “Hey” I get startled.  Brilliant.  It made me think about the priests going into the tabernacle.  I’ll have to mention that next time.

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