Nothing warms my heart more than when a guy cooks for me. It doesn’t have to be grand, but just to watch someone pottering around in the kitchen making really anything for me (or even just trying)...I just find it absolutely endearing.
Unfortunately a lot of men don’t cook. Or can’t. Or won’t. Nevertheless it turns out though that I can still be endeared without a guy cooking. Last night the conversation went like this:
Me: Can you pick us some fresh basil for the pasta please?
J: Sure. Which one is the basil?
The choices on my balcony are basil or a huge monster plant of some cacti sort.
J: I wouldn’t want to pick mint instead of basil.
Me: Don’t worry, there is no mint here. There is only regular basil, red basil and this ugly cactus.
J: Okay, what am I picking exactly?
Me: The bigger leaves. The small ones must still grow.
J: Okay, how much do we need?
Me: A handful.
Then a thought occurred to both of us.
|My hand (small), J's hand (big)|
We settled on a medium sized hand.
I am back at the stove, stirring the pasta.
J: Ups. I think I picked one that is too small.
Me: That’s okay. You can’t glue it back on, may as well keep it.
J (showing me his hand): Is that enough?
Me: A bit more. You can never have enough basil.
At this point we engage in a small discussion that basil is great even in big quantities yet coriander use definitely has its limitations.
I drain the pasta. Whispers from the balcony.
J: Are you big enough to be picked? Mh. And you? You look good!
Know what I mean now? There is something very endearing about watching a guy on your balcony, picking basil in the moonlight and talking to it...No cooking necessary.