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People don’t cook for me all that often. Sure, I have a few friends who venture to do so once in a blue moon, but for the most part my meals consist of either eating out or me cooking for the lucky few who I invite into my home for decadent dinners.
However, lately, the tides have shifted. I have found myself in the company of a boy[friend], who cooks. (Okay, so we haven’t had “the talk” yet, hence the brackets….)
I tend to be skeptical when anybody steps into the kitchen–I’m a bit of a know-it-all and I generally assume that whatever you’re cooking, I could make better. But when others cook for me, I try to be hands off unless they ask for my opinion or help; mostly because those are my stipulations when I prepare food for my friends.
So, when the boy offered to make me brunch, I was excited…but also nervous for him. This would be a major test, and he didn’t even know it.
It started with coffee (spiked with whiskey, an unexpected but welcome surprise). He roasted potatoes, sauteed Kale, split a chicken-feta sausage between us. He made cheesy scrambled eggs (not overcooked!), and accompanied it all with a much needed piece of simple buttered toast.
Lest we forget the cottage cheese with sliced banana, blueberries, and crystallized honey on the side.
He even did the dishes.
Damn, this one might be a keeper.