Even though cooking is alchemy in its most basic form, I still don't like doing it. I can never get the timing of a meal right, part of it will be cold while the other part may be burnt. My dad has it down to a science and will say things like this when he's on his way out the door to barbeque: "In three minutes put the rice on." Three minutes? Exactly three minutes? And then he'll pop his head in the back door as I'm stirring the rice, "Put the bread in the oven now." Then he'll disappear again until he's walking through the door with burgers and dogs as I'm putting the rice and bread on the table.
How does he do that?!
Steve and I are not like my dad at all but we do have a partnership in creating meals like my parents do and our roles always stay the same. I cook the eggs and Steve handles the starch for breakfast. I doctor up the red sauce as he drains the pasta. But the ultimate role I have in the kitchen is frying the meat. Under no circumstances is he to touch the meat. There have been times when I'm on my way home from somewhere when he calls to ask if he can start our infamous taco dip and I frantically press the pedal down and tell him I'll be there sooner. It's not that Steve does it wrong, it's just that I feel I need to do it. Christine taught me how to make tacos back in college and put me in charge of browning the meat so I like to keep that tradition going (kind of like the 3D glasses).
If I have to threaten violence when browning the meat, so be it, though when it comes time to drain the fat and I have trouble maneuvering the meat away from the fat in order to scoop it out, Steve is finally needed.
*While the pan in my hand precariously teeters above a Campbell's soup can* "Steve," I call. "I need help."
