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Because I am superbly lazy of course.

I lied to you, and I lied to everyone on the planet who has ever read any profile of mine on any social media outlet of any sort.

I said I love to cook.

I don’t.

I love the results of cooking. I love the results really really goodly. I smell it, I taste it, I roll my eyes to heaven, I moan, I giggle, I slurp, and smack  and come close to gargling the results of cooking.

But doing?

Are you nuts?

That is work!

I am allergic to WORK!

I don’t like the clean up. I don’t like the opening and measuring and stirring and watching. I look at the pretty picture, and go, mmmm, that looks wonderful and I want to close my eyes, twitch my nose, wiggle my toes, and open my eyes to find my desired creation, well, created. And plated appropriately if you don’t mind.

I’m sorry. Sue me.

I don’t mind a bit of chopping. Chopping with a nice chef’s knife makes me feel competent. I feel all cheffy. I do. Same way I feel when I add that bit of parsley (fresh of course and nicely chopped) to the pasta. It looks so professional. It looks so Puckish or Childish or Beardish.

I don’t want to look or sound Rayish. Rachel is so goofy, with her “I know, I know.” Do you know how long it took me to break that habit of responding to Diego’s whining with “I know, I know”? I mean Rachel R. is so dorky, wearing stupid clothes and skirts too short and those awful gladiator shoes! I mean even the likes of Heidi Klum can hardly carry off those awful things.

I don’t wanna go around yelling “Bam!” either.

I think Alton Brown is silly beyond Rachel. But he knows his crap, I’ll give him that. Mostly.

Anyway I’m deep in the bowels of a German Chocolate Cake. The frosting is done and looks okay. The cake (three freakin’ layers) is still baking. I have yet to master this oven, which apparently doesn’t cook stuff as fast as I’m used to which may have to do with the elevation  of about 4000 feet, or it may have to do with not wearing the right color underwear. Anyway, it’s not done yet, and one of the layers is bubbling over leaving a mess in the bottom, and I freakin’ hate to clean the oven.

Which is but another of a long list of reasons why I deserve a personal chef.

After so many near catastrophes in baking, I’m ready to almost admit that I am a lousy baker. Except that some things do turn out, so I read okay I guess. Nothing makes me twitch more than following the directions precisely and then having the shit come in a geyser of volcanic spew, running down the sides of said cake/pie tin. Anyway, I assume it’s not me, cause that would be insane, so it must be karma or some genie which is on the lam from its lamp.

I can cook.

I can.

I just don’t wanna, cuz I prefer to sit and read and contemplate the number 42, which if you know anything about the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, says it all.

So Santa, if you are out there, err, I mean UP there, being NORTH and all. If you are listenin’ you old farty fart, leave me a personal chef underneath the Christmas tree I have yet to buy. Trust me, we have one picked out. I’m thinking of decorating it in turquoise, which is the  de rigueur color in these parts. So just tuck him/her in real nice by the fireplace and make sure he/she or any combination thereof, knows all the basics of Mexican, Southern, Italian, French, Vegetarian, Mediterranean, Greek, Middle Eastern, African, Chinese, Jamaican–well you get the point. Good at all the stuff I like and will like based on the pitchers I see in the pretty magazines and cookbooks. K?

Oh and send along a nice new set of cookware, and of course knives, the best knives. I want to admire my personal chef, cheffing away with my best kitchen ware. Oh, just send me an unlimited credit limit at William Sonoma and we will call it even.


For the cookies you old degenerate fool. For the cookies.

And do pet the reindeer. I like ’em. They look nice to hug.

Bye Santa, and have a nice ride, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.