My coworkers held the door open as we stepped into the elevator, discussing our dinner plans. They were both so eager to get home and cook, but the mere idea of standing by an oven after a long day made me drowsy.
“Well, I hate cooking,” I said, unthinkingly.
I had exited the realm of Venezuelan social propriety and crossed into the land of nonconformist oddballs. One would have thought that I said I detest newborn babies. They looked at each other: Did she really just say that? Uh... maybe she got the Spanish wrong and meant to say she adores being in the kitchen.
“But Erin… Why??”
OK. Maybe it is a nice thing to do for oneself. I figured I would give cooking a try instead of the usual peanut butter crackers (my treasured Skippy jar is a smuggled staple in places where I don’t have the means to safely get to a market by myself, or haven’t yet figured out how the produce machines at the grocery store work).
I almost turned the kitchen into a fiery inferno, but am so pleased with my creation: boiled plantain, fried eggplant, and goat cheese on toast, with a side of passion fruit juice in a champagne glass.
I'm going to tell my coworkers all about it tomorrow.