A bulldog in the kitchen. That's how I've been described -- and not because I have a scrunched up face and bowed legs. I don't share my space well (see, I even used the phrase "my space"), I know I've growled more than once at a well intentioned "helper," and while I've not yet peed around the perimeter, I mark my territory pretty clearly. But now it appears I've found someone with whom I can share that space, trade advice and have even resisted re-arranging his kitchen (though he can see it on the horizon. "Just tell me where you put my things" he politely requested).
Yes, Wasabi and I are culinarily compatible. You didn't think it possible, did you? We both used our culinary prowess to charm dates in our past lives. The very day we met, he was greeted by freshly baked bread; he soon returned the favor with a blueberry soup that knocked my socks off. While I'm fairly certain he's a better cook than I, he humors my experimentation. Both chapters of our love have been largely centered in the kitchen.
He's a hospitalitarian too. Very shortly after our reunion he suggested we have dinner parties. Lots of them. And I wholeheartedly agreed. I used to love having friends over to feed them. That kinda fell apart once I moved back to Kansas and I've been trying to rediscover my inner hostess since.
So last weekend we threw our first dinner party together and I had a great time prepping for it. He and I move around each other quite well in the kitchen (either a sign of true love or a precursor to the apocalypse). A little music. A little laughter. A lotta love. Seafood, goat cheese and wine too.
We started with tapas and sangria, the main dish was a gorgeous paella and then we finished with flan and cappuccino. No one in Kansas City enjoyed a finer meal with finer company that evening. We all quickly found ourselves comfortably conversing with new friends.
And as always, I was the one who spilled the red wine on the white tablecloth.