There’s something very attractive about a man who knows how to cook. And not just because I’m often hungry. It’s in the way he uses his hands, the primal senses of watching him slice meat, the traditional name of ‘provider’ wafting through the air, carried by the aromas of frying onion and spices. The searing sound of sizzling oil as the blood red meats slides into the skillet.
There’s also an intrinsic sense of creativity with a man who knows how to cook. Recipes no where to be found, the man rummaging through fridges and pantries, investigating for potential flavours to join the flurried cuisine already in progress. Upon finding something in the fridge, perhaps a vegetable or sauce, there is the obligatory smell test – eyes shut, imagination brewing, before it either gets added, or for some unknown reason I have yet to unearth, back in the fridge to continue moulding.
If he does his job right, I’m always left wondering which I want more, the man or the food that he places before me.