Fear me, for I can cook!

Sort of.

See, a week ago Monday I moved into an apartment. Previous to that I spent about a week or so in a student hostel, looking for someplace less common-dorm-esque. This is my first time living away from home in someplace that is not a dorm room, so it's all new and exciting and stuff. I was very excited about it, with one nagging little doubt:

I can't cook.

It's not that I've made major disasters in the past. There've been a few unpleasantly-crunchy batches of ramen in my day, but aside from that, my few experiences in the kitchen have been successful, but just that: few. For the first eighteen years of my life, I just never had an interest or a need to actually cook anything, beyond zapping a microwave burrito or leftover slice of pizza. Then I left for college and lived in a dorm: if the cafeteria didn't seem appealing I'd zap some leftover pizza or a microwave burrito or something. When I felt daring I'd boil up some ramen in my hot-pot.

Then I dropped out, and made plans to move out of my parents house again. About a month and a half ago, I realized: Holy crap, I'm moving out. This means I will have to feed myself. Maybe I should learn how to cook some things. Immediately after I had that thought I think I had to go back to work or something and, basically, I forgot. So I hop on a jet, fly away, settle into life sans parents and college. Things are good.

Sometime around last week, I realized I was getting a little bit tired of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and pasta. My second night with a real kitchen I bought a big jar of sauce, some mozzerella, and a pound of pasta: it lasted me a week or so, as I am a tiny person. I love pasta and probably could be perfectly happy eating it for week at a time, as long as I got to alternate weeks with something else.

So yesterday, after I got back from seeing Mission: Impossible 3 (which was rather good), I was feeling inspired to go ahead and make myself something to eat. A meal, rather than just a random sandwich or bowl of calories. So I surveyed my assets, and made myself a grilled-cheese sandwich and a mug of tomato soup.

I'll admit that it hardly qualifies as high-class cuisine, and the soup was one of those instant mixes, just add boiling water, but hey: I used the stove for something slightly more involved than boiling a pot of water. I cooked!

Riding high from that victory i set about making myself some form of lunch today. Eggs, I decided. My parents didn't send me off without teaching me something, so I know the basics of an omelette. Let's try that. I've got cheese but need eggs, and while I'm out at the store, I pick also grab a tomato and a bag of frozen spinach and some onion and garlic powder. I crack the eggs into a bowl and mix them up a bit with the onion and garlic, then pour them into the best-available pan and let them cook for a bit, then scramble in some spinach and tomato. Another few seconds on the heat, then scoop them onto a plate and enjoy. I realize: Holy crap, I just cooked something! Something tasty! From scratch!

Now I have some suspicious feelings of impending maturity, and something must be done about that.