So up comes a post on making ketchup.

I tried it once. Yes, it was REALLY good. My god, Mr. Asshat and I couldn't stop eating it. Of course, he really, really loves ketchup. Like in the "put six packets of ketchup on my cheeseburger then dip my burger in the gigantic pool of ketchup on my plate which will have to be replenished when I get to my fries" kinda way. He ended up eating most of it, but that doesn't take away the fact that it was awesome.

Except it's fucking work to make it. I'd rather just buy a bottle of it. And it's not like I'm a lazy cook or anything - I can make some spectacular foods. (Just give me a slab of tenderloin and it's on!) It's just more work than necessary for a condiment that I don't eat a lot of anyway. And what bring me to actually comment on it is that the post that I was reading was like, "Oh, it's so awesome!" Yeah, if you really want to go that far. Good, yes. Spectacular? No.

I think that's going to be my measure on if I want to date a guy from now on. "Would I willingly make ketchup for this guy? No? Eh, I'll date him for six months, tops!"

Of course, I express love by food. Biscuits and gravy? A friend. Tenderloin? Best friend. Potato pancakes? Someone who's willing to marry me. The bar's pretty high for that one because frying six thousand pancakes from one batch takes fucking forever. It's a situation of either "Had a hand in my conception" or "Will marry me". ExFiancee still asks me to make them in payment for computer services. Hell, my mother would beg me to make them. I won't even get started on the potato dumplings..."You know how I gave birth to you? It would be really nice if you made some dumplings..."

The only reason this was so was because I really like to cook. I don't mind time intensive food every once in a while. And my mother was very impatient with cooking. If she couldn't stick it in the oven and let it go for a bit while she watched TV and had a cigarette, well, fuck it.

And then there was Martha Stewart. My mother, the impatient cook, tried many recipes. There were a few times that I took over because she was getting frustrated with how looooong the recipes took. "But it didn't take her that long! It looked really easy!" she'd say. "Mom," I'd reply, "she's got a kitchen staff, and through the magic of television, they edit the 40 minutes of fiddly out. Of course it looked easy, that's the point." (Two cases in point: Fruit served in candied grapefruit shells, which did turn out awesome but took something like 5 hours and coated the kitchen in sugar, and the ganache covered pecan pie that was sprinkled with booze and took forever to bake. I helped with the grapefruit, but the pie was all her, in the hopes that not helping her would curb this silliness.)

And now, I've managed to make myself hungry.