So I finally got my way and had the boy cook a home-cooked meal for me. Granted, he's no Jamie Oliver so I wasn't expecting no three-course candlelit dinner with epicure fit for a king, maybe some caviar along with kilpatrick oysters or anything like that, but he did promise a comforting meal of Spaghetti Bolognaise, which, in my opinion, is much better than any fine delicatessen.
Given that he is such a typical male who probably doesn't know the difference between butter and margarine, I wondered if the spaghetti bolognaise that would spin out of his hands would give me an excuse to sit in the toilet for the next few days, but I was pleasantly surprised at the results of his labour. Hearty and surprisingly flavourful, it was a big bowl of love, with a bit of cheese mixed in.
He tottered around the kitchen in his dodgy home clothes (yes, I did try to talk him out of wearing bright blue with red and yellow stripes - what are you, a flag? - alas, to no avail)
, fetching spices from shelves much too high for me to reach as I giggled and snapped away with my pretty pink camera phone, and being the typical McCool that he is, he cooks with one hand, the other casually slung in his pocket.
He can be so cold, and so silent, and so distant - and so overly arsehole-ish, but I'd eat his Spaghetti Bolognaise every day for the rest of my life if I could.
Labels: food, thoughts