Today I made a bundt cake. You probably
don't know what that even means, and neither did I really before today (it
refers to the shape of the pan as learned here). If you want to know more than that, ask your
mom. I'm sure she makes good ones.
This is the first time I have baked since you and I were together, and then even after we parted. In fact, it's the first time I've baked since I can remember. It had been on my to-do list for a while (ok like a year), to try new recipes and practice being domestic and getting ready for being a mom that always has warm desserts and hot dinners ready. But often, our trips to the museum, or the suburbs, or dinner at our favorite Thai spot, or out to see friends (ok, to drink with friends) got in the way (you were more fun than any baked goods). I haven't been to our Thai spot without you, and I don't think I'll ever be able to go back.
Anyways, I'm kinda pissed that I gave up so many opportunities to bake to be with you. I can't believe I let you get in the way of my culinary abilities for so long (I also made a quiche this weekend and I put bacon in it so that I couldn't walk a piece over to you as a surprise). Turns out, I'm decent at it. You always claimed to be good at baking, the way you made claims about a lot of things, but I never saw you bake. I only saw the evidence of it in your cupboards and on the bookshelf--tools that were the remains of a former life. What happened to that other you of which I saw many scattered remnants? He seemed nice. But the bundt cake is really good--I put orange zest and vanilla and ginger in it. The flavor is very light; the cake goes well with a warm cup of tea, which I enjoyed while I ate the first piece and watched reruns of LOST.
Remember when you lied to me about having watched LOST? You thought I would judge you because you watched it in a marathon; I judged you more for lying. When I was eating, I wanted to tease you about this LOST thing and eat the cake with you and sit in front of the air conditioning and scratch the nape of your neck how you like while you eat cake. But then I remembered that you don't really like sweet stuff and have never been one for dessert (save for the very occasional ice cream after dinner).
Remembering this (and subsequently realizing I had forgotten it up until this point) made me sad. And in a way glad. I mean, it's probably best that things ended. I probably shouldn't be in a relationship with someone who can't eat meat and doesn't care for sweets. And I probably shouldn't be with someone who is ashamed to be fanatic about something frivolous (even though LOST is hardly frivolous; see: Jack Shephard). And being with someone doesn't mean you give up awesome things like cooking. But it made me yearn for the power to make you and I right, to try it again with you. Or with someone else.
But I can't. Not yet. There's too much I still have to figure out. The ripples are still calming, the dust still settling, shifty, wary, apprehensive. I'm staying out too late, waking up too early, getting caught up on the projects I didn't find important until now, when free time is abound. I wish you ate meat so I could bring you a piece of the quiche; I wish you liked sweets so I could walk over a piece of the cake with a note on it that had a drawn heart and the letter A. That would be the best peace (piece, get it?) offering, an extension of tender love and remorse. But instead, I can hope that you'll get hungry for Thai food and LOST soon enough.
This is the first time I have baked since you and I were together, and then even after we parted. In fact, it's the first time I've baked since I can remember. It had been on my to-do list for a while (ok like a year), to try new recipes and practice being domestic and getting ready for being a mom that always has warm desserts and hot dinners ready. But often, our trips to the museum, or the suburbs, or dinner at our favorite Thai spot, or out to see friends (ok, to drink with friends) got in the way (you were more fun than any baked goods). I haven't been to our Thai spot without you, and I don't think I'll ever be able to go back.
Anyways, I'm kinda pissed that I gave up so many opportunities to bake to be with you. I can't believe I let you get in the way of my culinary abilities for so long (I also made a quiche this weekend and I put bacon in it so that I couldn't walk a piece over to you as a surprise). Turns out, I'm decent at it. You always claimed to be good at baking, the way you made claims about a lot of things, but I never saw you bake. I only saw the evidence of it in your cupboards and on the bookshelf--tools that were the remains of a former life. What happened to that other you of which I saw many scattered remnants? He seemed nice. But the bundt cake is really good--I put orange zest and vanilla and ginger in it. The flavor is very light; the cake goes well with a warm cup of tea, which I enjoyed while I ate the first piece and watched reruns of LOST.
Remember when you lied to me about having watched LOST? You thought I would judge you because you watched it in a marathon; I judged you more for lying. When I was eating, I wanted to tease you about this LOST thing and eat the cake with you and sit in front of the air conditioning and scratch the nape of your neck how you like while you eat cake. But then I remembered that you don't really like sweet stuff and have never been one for dessert (save for the very occasional ice cream after dinner).
Remembering this (and subsequently realizing I had forgotten it up until this point) made me sad. And in a way glad. I mean, it's probably best that things ended. I probably shouldn't be in a relationship with someone who can't eat meat and doesn't care for sweets. And I probably shouldn't be with someone who is ashamed to be fanatic about something frivolous (even though LOST is hardly frivolous; see: Jack Shephard). And being with someone doesn't mean you give up awesome things like cooking. But it made me yearn for the power to make you and I right, to try it again with you. Or with someone else.
But I can't. Not yet. There's too much I still have to figure out. The ripples are still calming, the dust still settling, shifty, wary, apprehensive. I'm staying out too late, waking up too early, getting caught up on the projects I didn't find important until now, when free time is abound. I wish you ate meat so I could bring you a piece of the quiche; I wish you liked sweets so I could walk over a piece of the cake with a note on it that had a drawn heart and the letter A. That would be the best peace (piece, get it?) offering, an extension of tender love and remorse. But instead, I can hope that you'll get hungry for Thai food and LOST soon enough.
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