Barrett Garese

On Beth and cooking.

When Beth cooks…um…

Well, there’s no other way to say this: When Beth cooks…she swears like a drunken sailor at a whorehouse.

“Stop doing that!” she’ll shout at garlic, minced and browning in oil. “Why are…wh…WHY ARE YOU DOING THAT!”

The garlic generally refuses to answer, mocking her in its overly slow or too quick browning fervor.

“Oh, COME ON!” is another common one, though that usually is directed at pancakes which flat-out refuse to flip properly or egg yolks which - in the great spirit of legendary renegades of past lore - break at inopportune times.

Our cat has actually learned to interpret the phrase “SON of a BITCH” as “there’s probably some tasty food on the floor for me to eat,” and it will summon him straight to the kitchen from all but the most well-hidden spots.

I’m obviously omitting the more…blue variations of phrase which emanate along with the generally sumptuous smells coming from around the corner.

I would help, but…well we have rules, you see. I am generally “in the way” in the kitchen, so no matter what I hear - unless it’s one of the two code phrases* - I don’t go in there. Dishes may crash, oil may spit, orange flames may shoot around the corner and catch the table on fire, and my job is to just keep my head down and pay no attention.

Yet I find the whole rigmarole to be quite endearing. She actually enjoys cooking, from what she’s told me, and she’s quite good at it. The results are with very few exceptions excellent. I also appreciate the efforts she goes to as - at least from what I can sense - while she enjoys it, it seems like a similar reaction to how mothers who just gave birth immediately forget the pain of labor.

*The code phrases are “Oh god, oh god, it won’t stop bleeding, WHY WON’T IT STOP BLEEDING!?” and “I’m ON FIRE RIGHT NOW!”