I love my own cooking. Although I lack formal training, my knife skills are superb and I don’t know how to ruin anything delicious. I should be employed as a professional chef, in attendance to myself exclusively. I would plan the meals, get up early and shop for the finest, freshest ingredients, and prepare my favorite dishes. I’ve made something special for you this evening, I’d say, and I’d reply, oh, you never fail to delight me, and then I’d laugh and mention something offhand about how haricots verts are rather skinny and overplayed like Taylor Swift and then there’d be this long pause before I’d say, why don’t you just focus on conjuring scrumptious entrées and she’s really quite attractive and talented. Dinner would proceed in graceless silence, save the hiss of the now-abandoned crêpe pan, but whatever compliment I’d give myself, as I cleared the table of unfinished food, would be stilted and perfunctory.
By Michael Grant Smith