Seven Brothers of Sin

I guess you could say that food has been my boyfriend this year.

Well, at least he’s been nice to me.

College, however?

Not so much.

If I’m being honest, I really hate the college experience. I hate my roommate, for one. Tara is ultra-feminist, and that’s fine, I respect folks who have strong beliefs. But I don’t agree with a lot of what she says. I mean, it’s okay to like domestic stuff. I’m not less of a person if I want to make dinner at night. I’m not dumb or insignificant for taking pleasure in small things like fancy silverware and pretty placemats. Right?

So, ugh. There are so many things about college that just don’t fit. My roommate. The other girls who party hard and never sleep. Plus, the career aspect of it all. We’re supposed to be pre-professional, getting ready for big careers in finance or banking or law. But I don’t want to be a tax expert or run someone’s lawsuit. I don’t want to go to graduate school, period.

And unfortunately, my parents won’t listen. Jim was an accountant, Marsha a commercial real estate agent. Of course, they’re retired now, but while they were working, they both made good money and lived normal, boring lives.

And that’s fine for them. After all, who am I to judge? I reaped the rewards, living a comfortable middle-class lifestyle as a result. But I don’t know. It’s not me. I don’t want to spend my life in a beige cubicle, boxed into a ten by ten square. I don’t want to have my vision deteriorate staring at a computer screen all day. I don’t want to be my parents, who spent decades as dutiful corporate drones.

But what do I want?

I want to cook and eat amazing food.

I want to get my hands dirty, burying myself in tastes and textures from all over the world.

I want to make something of my life that has nothing to do with books and computers.

So it’s confusing. Life is confusing. But here in the kitchen? This is where I feel happiest, most content. I’m just not good with equations and problem solving and making presentations. Heck, I can barely get a sentence together most days, particularly when I’m nervous or overwhelmed. My forte is making flavors work together, the smell and touch and taste guiding me.

Sigh. So what do I do about this college thing? My first year was rough for sure. I made a few friends, but overall, it was just overwhelming. I spent a lot of time in my dorm room, writing recipes and thinking about this cookbook. That was my first goal after coming home, to get right back into the kitchen, test my recipes, and get the book together. I plan to self-publish it and once I do, maybe my parents will listen and let me switch to culinary school. After all, if they’re spending loads of money, it should be for something that makes sense.

If only it were that easy.

If only Jim and Marsha would listen.

I have to try and make them listen.

Bustling around the kitchen, a slight hum comes from my lips, and I dance around making homemade mozzarella and flatbread dough. Making things from scratch is big for me. It takes longer but I can control the flavors so that the dough is infused with just the right amount of parmesan, basil, and garlic. My mouth waters just thinking about how good it’s going to be.

I’m putting together a simple Italian flatbread. Margherita, restaurants would call it, with a tangy-yet-sweet sauce and globs of runny, milky cheese. Big pieces of basil make it even more aromatic and scrumptious, but it’s this special dough that will propel it into the world of culinary orgasms.

It turns me on, just thinking about it. I wish the boys were here to enjoy the food. Just seeing them shovel my food into their mouths the other night was more satisfying than almost anything I’ve ever experienced before. To be able to cook for people who genuinely enjoy my food is its own reward. To pair that with, well, all the things that came next … that’s my dream life.

I’m just not like other people, I guess. The girls I know at college are into extracurriculars, community service, all topped with getting straight A’s to boot. But there’s a cost, for sure. Because on weekends, they drink a lot, getting completely wasted and shitfaced. Then they sleep with guys right and left, sometimes two or three per weekend. Sadly, the memory’s not even there the next morning. That’s right, between the black outs and hangovers, no one remembers anything.

It’s really sad, in my opinion.

Who would want that?

After my experiences with the Morgans, I definitely want to remember everything.

So yeah, that life doesn’t appeal. I’ve never been with a man, of course, but learning about sex will be much like cooking, for me. It will be experiential, full of noise and touch and taste. So far, these sessions with the Morgan boys have been just what I needed, though I’m certain most of the people I know would be horrified if they knew.