I'm a good eater . . .

There’s this dude that I live with . . well two dudes . .

One’s a dog.

One’s a full grown man. 

All three of us love food.  In a ‘bust-your-gut-and-hate-yourself-because-you-don’t-have-any-semblance-of-how-to-understand-what-full-feels-like’ kind of a way. When I lived alone, I’d spend hours in the kitchen on Sunday making a mountain of food for the upcoming week.* Leftovers could have easily satiated a normal person until Friday or Saturday** – I’d be licking out the bottom of the Tupperware by Tuesday. . .

. . . with the dog following my lead shortly thereafter.

And ‘to-go’ containers were really only temporary holding devices .  .  . emptied into my stomach and in the garbage before I went to bed that night. 

Now it is my responsibility to feed a full grown man who shares my passion for delicious food.   On a good day, leftovers might be used to create a single meager portions for lunch.*** And to-go containers?  Unless Chinese food was delivered or someone ELSE couldn’t finish their meal  . . . there seems to be an unspoken ban in our fridge.

Long story short:  We’re eaters. 

We eat in . . .

I pride myself on my willingness to try random ingredients in dishes from worlds away or to simply throw random leftovers together to see what comes up.   I certainly don’t hit a home run every time . . . but it has been a while since I’ve left the game without at least a promising foul ball.  There is, however, the occasional fly ball with potential . . lofting up . . up . .  up . . and landing steadily on the left fielder’s mitt.  But no one can ever say I’m cautious with my cooking trials.

. . . and we eat out.

 If it’s in the city of Milwaukee limits (and within the budget of a young professional with a propensity for expensive shoes and expensive cocktails . . . or the budget of her parents) we’ve tried it, aspired to try it or at least heard about it.  But chances are, between the guy and I – it’s been had.

So qualified or not, I’ve formed my fair share of opinions –and the dude chimes in on a regular basis.   hand us a few cocktails and we’ll convince ourselves that anyone gives a damn . . . and our convictions remain steadfast even after the shroud of alcohol is lifted. 

And so. I will blog.  Blog about crap other people make me.  crap I make myself and probably more than a few ramblings on crap totally unrelated to food.

Enjoy . . or don’t.  I really couldn’t care less.****

*I told myself it was a nod to a new level of adult responsibility. I’ve come to realize it was more a lack of friends and an omnipresent level of social awkwardness.
**it has been noted that I maintain some “questionable” standards around leftovers . . .
***elating my domestic soul by excusing me from sandwich duty the next morning . . .
****if there is one thing you take away from this waste of your life – the phrase is ‘couldn’t care less.’ . . . of which, I could care less if you used correctly.