Cooking, by Ricky

Speaking generally, Eisenhower, Bradley, Patton, Marshall, DeGaul, Montgomery, Julius, and I don’t cook; I mostly eat things cooked by others.

I do make a wonderful meatloaf. That is, occasionally it is wonderful. My meatloaf really was wonderful, once. I could never duplicate the recipe as there really wasn’t one; only general guidelines with one secret ingredient. I make it just like my mother did. When she added the spices and “fillers,” she added a little of this and some of that, of whichever spices and fillers were actually on hand in the cupboard.

For one year, I was a “house-husband” in Florida while Deborah, my wife, worked. My children and I ate lots of fried ground hamburger mixed with eggs and corn or peas. I was okay, but the kids grew very tired of it rather quickly. I varied the meals with spaghetti to avoid making excessively boring meals. Of course, I also did my meatloaf with vegetables. The meals must have turned out okay because the kids grew and no one got sick or died.

Earlier this year, I made a lemon-meringue pie from scratch, except for the store-bought crust. I followed a recipe from a cookbook and it came out picture-and-taste perfect.

Years ago, while in the Boy Scouts, I learned to cook enough to pass my Tenderfoot badge requirements. After just one campout trying to cook on a fire using the aluminum mess kit, I decided there must a better way!

The annoying problem with cooking with a mess kit is the cleanup afterwards. I followed the recommendation of the Scout Handbook and coated the bottom of my kit with rubbings from a bar of soap to make the removal of soot easier. I don’t believe it helped at all but if it did, I would hate to clean one that had no soap applied in advance.

After that experience, I discovered aluminum foil cooking. So from then on, I wrapped cut carrots, potatoes, and a hamburger patty in foil and placed it on hot coals until done. I made the meals at home and carried them to the campsite for cooking. No fuss. No cleanup mess. I was back to all the fun stuff in minimal time.

Within a year, I was the Senior Patrol Leader and the oldest boy in the troop. At that point, the Scoutmaster, his assistant, and the occasional father would not only cook for themselves but also for me. I was in scout hog-heaven.

The recent movie, Moonrise Kingdom with its reference to Khaki Scouts makes me nostalgic for those halcyon days of Boy Scouting in my youth – full of energy, no significant cares, out in the fresh-air, having fun, learning or honing new skills, challenging activities, minor cuts & scrapes, meals flavored with nature’s “trail-seasonings,” competitions with other troops, campfire sing-a-longs with ghost-stories or perhaps other stories even some you wouldn’t want your mother to hear about, and probably knowing that the younger scouts looked-up to me as if I were their “nice” older brother.

My heart and head long for those days to become real again, so the memories of them are truly precious to me representing, as they do, the happiest times of my youth.

© 19 November 2012

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Cooking, by Will Stanton

James was a fantastically good cook, and I believe I have figured out
why.  There are several reasons that led
to his preoccupation with having enough food to eat and enjoying it.
To begin with, James knew hunger. 
He had very little to eat as a boy in Georgia and probably went hungry
quite often.  Although his father was
undoubtedly very intelligent (he could quote passages from the Bible merely
from having heard them at church), he was illiterate and could find only menial
work, which brought in very little money. 
They lived in a pre-Civil-War-era house without electricity and
sometimes had only collard greens for supper. 
As a growing boy, this lack of food frequently must have preyed upon
James’ mind.
James left home at age fifteen to make his own way.  During this time, he had very little money
and ate very little.  Probably the first
time he had a square meal was when he joined the Air Force.  Although he, at last, did not go hungry,
military chow doesn’t have a great reputation. 
It wasn’t until after he left the service and used the G.I. bill to
begin college that serendipity set him upon a path to learning about good
quality food, prepared well.
One rainy day in San Antonio, James took refuge inside the lobby of an
elegant hotel and sat down to study his French. 
In walked a well-dressed, older gentleman who immediately took notice of
James.  Did I mention that young James
was stunningly handsome, enough to turn heads? 
Well, he certainly did with Monsieur Charles Bois de Chêne, millionaire
from Lausanne, Switzerland.  Charles spoke to James in French, who also
replied in excellent French, James having inherited somehow an innately
brilliant mind and could learn rapidly. 
A strong friendship rapidly progressed to the point that Charles decided
to take James with him to Switzerland and France so James could gain greater
experience speaking French.
While traveling through France and Switzerland, James accompanied
Charles to operas and ballets, afterwards being taken to meet the casts.  They attended the exclusive Cannes Film
Festival.  And central to this story, he
certainly learned a lot about proper preparation and presentation of food.  This understanding and interest in food
stayed with him throughout the rest of his life.
Charles introduced James to elegant and varied meals among the
five-star resorts along Lake Como. 
Whenever they came across one of the famous French pâtisseries with
their all-too-tempting pastries, they indulged themselves so much that James
became concerned that those pastries easily could turn him into a cochon de
lait,
or ”suckling pig,” the French idiom for someone who has become
rather chunky.   And, when they were in
Paris, they dined at the world-famous Hotel Ritz, where James came to truly understand
haute cuisine.
By the time I met James in Denver, he already had developed an interest
in cooking fine meals.  I know that I
have a natural instinct for knowing how to cook, and I have done so on
occasion; however, I never cared much for taking the time.  Before I had met James, I generally prepared
simple meals for myself.  Then after
James and I moved in together, James’ preference was to do the cooking, so I
generally assisted only as a sous chef, except when I was inspired to
create a favorite dish of mine.
James had many varied interests and excelled in them all, yet I am sure
that there remained a residual emotional scar from childhood when there was
virtually no food in his family’s house. 
As a consequence, he always made sure we had a full larder, including a
large pantry, extra storage on basement shelves, and in a large freezer in the
basement.
Because James enjoyed cooking so much, I bought him cookery gifts over
the years, such as a Cuisinart food processor, enameled, heavy-iron Le Crueset cook-pots, the best quality
mixer, Chinese woks, bread-maker, pasta-maker, crystal wine glasses, and a
large set of stoneware dinnerware.  While
we were together, we enjoyed hosting dinner-parties.  For a while, after he died of lung cancer, I
tried occasionally to continue that practice, but I finally lost heart and
suspended the practice.
I set the professional mixer on top of the refrigerator and covered it
with a plastic cover. I also covered the two dozen cook books.  The plastic covers have remained there now
going on twenty years.  An acquaintance
coveted my expensive Cuisinart and asked to buy it for only $20.  Because she supposedly is a friend, I agreed
and let it go for that.  Most of the
professional Le Crueset pots went in
a garage-sale.  Other pots and pans
remain, dust-covered, in the bottom drawer of my stove.  I have little interest in drinking wine, and
few people come to my house, so the crystal wine-glasses remain in the buffet,
unused.
Now my meals are what I call “utility eating.”  I prepare salads, heat a can of soup, make a
sandwich, or occasionally cook something simple on the stove-top.  The oven hasn’t been on in years.  I just don’t have the interest in preparing
varied and interesting meals just for myself. 
Perhaps the most used appliance in my kitchen is the old microwave.  Sometimes I think that, if I didn’t have a
microwave, I’d starve.
The one prevention for repetitive and boring meals for me, however, is
that I often have modest meals with friends out in various restaurants, nothing
fancy, just basic food.  And, that’s not
so much because of being able to order varied food which I don’t wish to bother
making for myself.  It is because of the
good company with my friends, which is especially important in my life right
now.
©
19 May 2016 
About the
Autho
I have had a life-long fascination with
people and their life stories.  I also
realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or
fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual
ones.  Since I joined this Story Time
group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Let’s Eat! by Nicholas

There is nothing like the aroma sent up when the garlic hits the hot oil in the pan. That is one of my favorite moments in cooking. Sauteeing a mire pois—onions, carrots and celery—in preparation for a stew, I’ll toss in the chopped garlic and a wonderful scent fills the kitchen.

I like to cook. But, first, let me back up and say, I like food. I like planting and growing vegetables, watching the plants mature into delicious edibles. I like picking them just before cooking dinner. I like picking out my food at markets and bringing home bags full of fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses, breads. And, I like to eat. And I like to enjoy a glass of wine while cooking. And, of course, to complete the cycle, I like a good nap.

Every spring I look forward to planting the garden in my backyard with three kinds of tomatoes, three summer squashes, green and yellow beans, long and globe-size eggplant and a host of herbs—oregano, thyme, sage, tarragon, rosemary and basil. For me, summer starts when I taste the first fresh basil in a salad.

Cooking is but one aspect in my relationship with food. I do consider my eating habits as a complex relationship from start to finish. I don’t understand how some people can just eat what comes out of pizza box or a fast food bag or a take-out carton. I want a connection to my food. I want meals to involve multiple steps from purchase or picking to preparation to cooking to the table. If I couldn’t do all that, I would miss it. It’s a whole sensual experience. One that starts at the Saturday morning Cherry Creek market, picking out the fresh fruits—last Saturday, sweet cherries from the Western Slope began to show up. The season will last maybe a month and then no more cherries until next summer. But then there will be peaches and pears.

When I recently spent two weeks visiting San Francisco, I planned part of my trip around food. I rented a small apartment with a full kitchen so I could cook in it. I always felt in previous visits there that I was missing something when I would see all this wonderful food in stores and street markets and not be able to do anything with it. This time, I went to a local farmers market and bought the freshest, most delicious strawberries and lettuces and assembled fabulous salads. It was as much fun as going to dinner at a great restaurant. We did that too.

I’m not a fussy or elaborate cook. I prefer minimal ingredients. I do not see myself cooking as if I were some fancy chef at home. That’s what restaurants are for—the food I would never try at home. In San Francisco, a friend took me to a Nepalese restaurant. The food there was flavored with complicated combinations of spices in rich sauces that probably took hours to make.

I prefer less complicated approaches. Yesterday, I made pork chops using rosemary picked fresh outside my back door and garlic and, of course, salad with a touch of basil and arugula also from the backyard.

Many times, I check what’s in the frig and what’s in the garden and make up a recipe. I’ve found that paprika and dry mustard powder are a nice combination to flavor a stir fry. A spoonful of yellow curry can make a lamb stew sparkle with flavor.

One of the food books I use most frequently in cooking is not really a cookbook with recipes. Instead it lists elements of food that go together like turnips, apples and tarragon or kale, bacon and lemon instead of complete detailed recipes. It suggests spices and herbs that are good seasoning matches. Then I make up my own concoctions letting my appetite and taste buds tell me what to put in the pot.

Of course, I like cooking with wine. As the joke goes, sometimes I even put it in the stew. What’s even better is having a grateful husband to wash the dishes.

© June 2016

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

Cooking by Gillian

I have blamed my lack of enthusiasm for cooking on being a lesbian, and my mother, in varying percentages. However I know many lesbians who love to cook, so decided it came down to my mother. She cooked as necessary for my dad and me, but it was always apparent that it was more of a chore than a pleasure; my attitude exactly to cooking for my family, although I managed to keep four teenage stepchildren from complaining too much. I’m not sure whether that’s a testament to my unexciting but perfectly palatable meals, however, or to their forbearance.

It was only later in life when, perhaps, you look back on things with at least slightly less distortion, I realized that for most of the years that I lived at home, Britain was under severe food rationing. In a world where many things, including practically anything imported, were simply unavailable, and what was available severely rationed, no wonder she lacked a certain enthusiasm. Doubtless some women reveled in the challenge of creating gourmet wonders from dried egg substitute (though we did get one real egg per week) and substituting ground potato for just about anything and frying sausages that were 90% bread crumbs. My mother was not among them.

I still have one of her cookbooks from that time and some of the recipes are astounding:

Carrot Fudge: well the thought’s enough to gag you. But, hey, the recipe was simple and easy; grate and cook as many carrots as you can spare, flavor with anything available; juice squeezed from fruit in season, artificial vanilla, left-over tea. Add gelatin, cook a few minutes, spoon into a flat dish. Leave to set then cut into cubes.
Yummm

Or there was SpaMghetti, which called for spaghetti, four eggs from reconstituted egg substitute, one half can of SPAM (God Bless America,) ¼ cup grated cheese (or grated potato if not available), onions and parsley, pepper and salt, as available. While spaghetti is boiling cook other ingredients in margarine if available or lard if available or water if nothing else is available.

Now you just try working up a fervor for that!

And, looking back, my poor mother did try so hard.

One of my most vivid childhood memories is of a very early birthday. I think I was three or possibly four. Mum produced, with a grand flourish, a birthday cake. Surpri-ise! Well I doubt my brain actually had a grasp of any such concept. Rationing allowed us very little in the way of cake at all, and I’m not sure if I had ever even seen a real pre-war style frosted cake, let alone tasted one. Only many years later did I have the remotest concept of the hording of ingredients and the trading of coupons this production must have cost.

It smelled delicious. I remember that.

And I was not the only one who thought so.

The dog sprang from the fireside mat, gained the table in one quick lunge, knocked the cake on the floor, and inhaled it. Apparently she, being considerably older than I, did recognize such pre-war visions of taste-treat sensation.

My mother was inconsolable. She wept. She roughly shoved the dog outside – about as close to animal cruelty as Mum would ever get. My dad shook his head and clicked his tongue and said, “Never mind,” – about as close to verbosity as he would ever get.

I remember feeling very confused at all this drama and then I sat down on the floor beside the remains of the shattered cake and scooped up finger loads into my mouth. It was delicious. Who could fault the dog?

I started to giggle. My mother, who always had a good sense of humor, soon joined in.

Dad, looking much relieved, winked solemnly at me and sat beside me on the floor, jabbing big hairy fingers into flattened frosting.

As he had anticipated, my mother responded with a disgusted, “Oh Edward! Get up!” but we both knew that secretly she was delighted with our response and our evident delight at her cake, even if it was not served quite as she intended.

She even relented and let the dog back in eventually, to clean up the dregs my dad and I had left on the kitchen linoleum.

There were still years of rationing to follow, but I don’t recall Mum ever going for the Big Cake Event again, and she certainly did not once rationing ended and cakes were readily available in the local bakery. So, whether or not it originated with rationing, who knows? (Though Brits of my generation and up do so love to blame the Germans.)

All I know for sure is, I’m with her. A woman’s place is no longer in the kitchen, and I would rather spend my time writing my silly short stories.

And as it’s almost Thanksgiving I shall close with a relevant quote from Erma Bombeck?

Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. Half-times takes twelve minutes. This is not coincidence.

Lakewood, 2012

About the Author 

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

Cookie Monster by Phillip Hoyle

     During my rather long life I have tasted an endless assortment of cookies. They cause me to smack my lips, salivate, and obsess, so much so that I freely identify with Cookie Monster of Sesame Street. I smell cookies; I see cookies; I want to eat cookies. I do eat cookies, way too many of them. But every so often I seek to stem the cookie tide in order to gain control of some little part of my life. Then I quit eating cookies along with other wonderful desserts in hopes of stemming my appetite. Cookies, you see, serve me as a stimulant for further eating. Cookies turn me into a ravenous food monster that isn’t pretty or couth or sharing. So every once in a while, Cookie-Monster-me wants to give it a break so I can enjoy some other possible satisfactions such as easily fitting into my clothes, having more breath, saving money, and not getting so exhausted when simply walking through a day.

     After feasting on cookies all year long and sometimes using them as a substitute for getting anything done, I have, this year, set aside my cookie pleasures. I’m doing well but my thoughts sometimes turn towards cookies. I’ve asked Ruth, with whom I live and who herself is a Cookie Monster albeit a dainty one, to quit leaving cookies in plain sight. Too often they sit in translucent boxes on the round table in the breakfast room. When I see the box, I have to run upstairs to fetch some chewing gum to keep my mouth busy and cookie free. Also, I shun buying cookies at the 7-11 across the street from work or the tea shop down the block or one of the many coffee shops I tend to visit. I’m cookie free (for several days) but my mind has turned towards them with such great force, I am going to list the cookies that have most preoccupied my eating habits during the many years from childhood to older adulthood. Perhaps the imagination of their flavors and textures will suffice for me, at least today. Here, according to my taste buds, are some of the very best, both commercial and homemade:

Hydrox cookies
Pecan Sandies
Wedding cookies (with pecan bits and covered in confectioner sugar)
Toll House cookies
Black and white sandwich cookies (the cheaper the better)
Macaroons
Peanut butter blossoms (with their big chocolate centers)
Snickerdoodles 
Shortbread cookies
Raspberry filled sandwich cookies with chocolate drizzled on top
Myrna’s Power Cookies (big oatmeal cookies with raisins & chocolate chips)
Ruth’s frosted sugar cookies
Ruth’s Cry Babies (soft ginger cookies with icing)
Lemon bar cookies
Seven layer bar cookies
Key Lime bar cookies (I used to get at Alfalfa’s bakery)

     In conclusion, I must admit I always return to Toll House cookies when my taste changes. I like cookies. I hope to lose enough weight to make a moderate return to cookies, but being the Cookie Monster I am, I find it hard to imagine life with such advanced self-control. If you ever see me reaching for the cookie jar, simply clear your throat and raise an eyebrow or, better yet, join me for an ultimate cookie pleasure.

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

Cooking by Michael King

     One of my favorite things is to fix a nice meal for Merlyn. I like assembling various ingredients to create a flavorful and satisfying and attractive as well as a nutritious and healthy meal. I suppose I have a general recipe idea but seldom measure or even use the same combination of ingredients in my concoctions.

     I often fix eggs, potatoes and toast for breakfast. One of my challenges is how many different ways can I cut up a potato so it has a different appearance and texture. It has a different flavor too. Do I add other ingredients such as onion, cut according to the way the potato is sliced or diced or julienned, green or red or orange or yellow peppers or all the above cut to blend with the potato and onion shapes? Do I add chili flakes or dill with salt and pepper? Maybe I’ll add no other ingredients, just plain potatoes. Maybe I’ll fix a scramlet where I add bacon bits, toast cut in small squares, onions, peppers, add the eggs, stir and top with cheese and maybe parsley flakes; each time fixing a slightly different meal with a little difference in taste.

     If done just right it should be beautiful, delicious and presented on a plate with colors and patterns that shows it off perfectly. On days that I’m not fixing an egg breakfast, about half the time, I usually fix oatmeal or granola. Of course I have to add walnuts, dried cranberries, with one or more fruits, bananas, peaches, pears, apricots, apple, dates, figs, kiwi, etc. I once put thinly sliced celery and apple with the walnuts and oatmeal. Since the celery leaves were on the stalk I added them too. It was very attractive and I thought delicious. Merlyn said he didn’t eat lettuce with oatmeal so I’ve never fixed that again. The only other time he complained was when I fixed oyster stew. He informed me he didn’t eat oysters. Considering that I’ve only had two complaints in aproxamently the 1100 meals that I’ve fixed since we met,

     I feel OK with my food fixing obsession which gets even more complex with lunches and dinners.

     When we invite people over which is rare, but does happen occasionally, I like to make sure it’s a memorable event.

     We once invited our friends Jack and Glenn over. I fixed Cornish hens with an orange sauce, dressing and vegetables on a bed of sliced romaine and tomato pieces on red patterned Chinese plates. The table looked beautiful and Jack and Glenn wouldn’t let us eat until they had taken photos. Then they raved about everything. A couple of days later we receive a nice card with the comment that they felt like they had been transported to another time and space of magic and wonder. I like it when a meal comes off like that, a real ego boost. As with a lot of people who really like to cook, I can go on for hours discussing food preparation, ingredients and techniques.

     When my daughter was diagnosed with terminal cancer she was told that if she didn’t have a hysterectomy immediately she would only have about three months to live. She said no.

     She then went to a healing center where they told her she had a gluten allergy which had caused the tumors. She was given a very strict diet, nothing with gluten which is added to most prepared foods to improve the texture and smoothness and to prevent separation of the ingredients, no eggs or dairy products, no meats except for turkey which is anti-carcinogenic, and no fruit and vegetables like corn and I forget all the other forbidden foods. I got a call for help. Neither she nor her husband knew where to start with fixing foods she could eat. I was also at a loss, but since I was retired and had the time I started studying the problem. With a list of what she could eat I fixed her a variety of dishes like vegetarian split pea soup, vegetable and turkey stew, etc. 

     About a week or so later I was told that she now could have nothing cooked except the turkey. My concept of food preparation had always been to cook everything except for salads and a few fruits and vegetables, and starting with what meat was being served. Now what’s with this raw foodist diet? I had never heard of that and was completely at a loss as to where to begin. Everything had to be completely “natural” and “organic.” I got a few books on raw foodist food preparation which then required a dehydrator and all sorts of possible gadgets for grinding, slicing, processing, etc. To my surprise the best book on preparing a raw food diet with recipes was written by someone I had known for 30 years. I then fixed an assortment of meals that got us through the first couple of months. The tumors started to diminish in size and my daughter was feeling better. She was now allowed to add some fruit and more vegetables. After five months she was completely tumor free and by now could fix her own diet. Shortly after that they moved to Africa. She then got pregnant, had her first daughter, moved back and is due with the second around the first of the year. Had she not listened to her inner voice and had followed the medical advice; she would be living a very different life. Instead she took control of her health and her future.

     I had the opportunity to fix uncooked meals which was at the time a totally foreign concept. Now I get to cook whatever I want to. I can plan and shop and spend hours in the kitchen. I get help cutting and chopping. I get to do what I really enjoy doing and the greatest reward is to be able to do that for someone I love.

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”. I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

Cooking by Merlyn

     I don’t like to clean up the mess In the kitchen when I cook so only fix food that doesn’t make a mess.

     If you open my refrigerator you may find a jar of peanut butter, some kind of butter, a package of sharp cheese, beer and loaf of bread in the freezer.

     I only cook two meals when I’m by myself.

#1
Take one slice of bread.
Put it in the toaster.
Cut a slice of cheese big enough to cover ½ of the slice of toast.
Wash the knife while the toast is toasting.

Put the toast on a piece of paper towel.
Add cheese.
Fold the toast over the cheese.
Leave the kitchen.
Toss paper towel.

#2
Open one can of hot Chile with beans.
Dump it the small blue bowl.
Add about ¼ cup of water to can rinse can and add water into the bowl.
Add a pinch of hot pepper and stir.
Put bowl in microwave push pizza wait 1 ½ min.

When I get tired of hearing the microwave beep I take bowl out 
Stir Chile push pizza button again.
When I get tired of hearing the microwave beep again I take bowl out and eat the Chile.
Wash bowl and spoon and leave kitchen.

   Any kind of food that I put in the oven will someday turn into a house full of smoke. I used to want something to eat so I would put something in the oven, get busy doing something and forget about the food,

     I learned a long time ago that I should never use the oven.
I only use the microwave and toaster.

     The first thing I do when I get a new refrigerator is buy a small carton of milk, place it on the center shelf and keep turning the temperature control colder until the milk freezes. Toss the milk. The beer will be ice cold but it will never freeze. It stays fresh until I want to drink it even if I’m out of town for a while.

     I like my kitchen to be clean with everything out of sight in its proper place.

     Michael’s a good cook and loves to make a big mess in his kitchen; he always asks me what I want to eat. He loves it when I ask him for something that he doesn’t know how to make just the way I want it. I do help him whenever he asks me to do something like cut up food but he is happiest when I leave him alone so he can concentrate on cooking two or three meals at a time.

About the Author

I’m a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.

Cooking by Colin Dale

          As a kid, cooking terrified me, and I wasn’t a kid who terrified easily. It wasn’t the doing of cooking so much that terrified me, but the idea of cooking. The idea of cooking scared not the crap out of me but the identity out of me.

          You know how with many languages–actually with one fourth of the world’s languages–there’s such a thing as grammatical gender? In these languages, all objects–not just those with obvious biological gender such as men and women, bulls and cows, but all objects–are classified by gender. That’s why, in a language like Spanish for example, we have not only ‘el hombre,’ masculine for ‘the man,’ and ‘la mujer,’ feminine for ‘the woman;’ but also ‘el machete,’ masculine for ‘the machete, or big knife,’ and ‘la mesa,’ feminine for the table. Languages using grammatical gender most often use only two: masculine and feminine; a few, like German, also employ neuter. English doesn’t mess around with grammatical gender. We English-speakers don’t bother classifying all objects according to masculine, feminine, or neuter. That’s why first time language learners studying certain foreign languages often find the business of grammatical gender completely crazymaking.

          But grammatical gender is a matter of language and therefore a terror only for language learners. The idea of cooking, when I was growing up, presented a different kind of terror for me, not a language terror but a terror linked more vitally to biological gender: let’s call it self-conscious gender.

          I should say in calling it self-conscious I’m not suggesting a condition of shyness or awkwardness–although, in my case, shyness and awkwardness were certainly both there to be seen. I’m thinking more of self-conscious in the sense of how one sees oneself, how one takes the measure of oneself. So, when I say, as a kid, I was terrorized by self-conscious gender, what I’m saying is that biological gender, as well as the socially approved sexual orientation linked to that gender–were much on my mind. Something I suspect we all experience: I didn’t know how to see myself. I didn’t know how to take the measure of myself.

          What, you should be asking, does all this have to do with cooking?

          In my childhood, much as in Spanish, all objects were classified by gender. For example, sports–baseball, football; not necessarily tennis–were like ‘el machete,’ the big knife: masculine. Household chores, like cleaning and cooking, were like ‘la mesa,’ the table: feminine. I’ve suggested first time foreign language learners often find grammatical gender completely crazymaking. Well, believe me, for a kid growing up for the first time, self-conscious gender can be just as crazymaking.

          My family, my relatives, my schoolmates were all I had for a reference frame–as with studying a language, that Beginners’ Spanish textbook is all you have to go on. Within my reference frame, cleaning and cooking weren’t the only things classified as feminine. The list was a long one. It included fussiness about clothes–feminine, too much time spent grooming–feminine, a fear of getting dirty–feminine–although gardening, which was bound to get you dirty, was definitely feminine–feminine too was avoiding bullies, or showing an interest in the arts–music, dance, or poetry–and absolutely feminine was taking pleasure in the outdoors, not, of course, as a place to play touch football–that was masculine–but the outdoors for itself, for the grasses, the trees, the birds and changes of season. All of these were dangerously feminine.

          Puzzling to me was seeing a few of my schoolmates take up some of these feminine interests–something I hadn’t the guts to do. I had schoolmates who drifted into the arts. Others who seemed to enjoy dressing nicely. A few who weren’t particularly aggressive. It wasn’t until years later that I figured out these schoolmates could make the choices they made because they weren’t terrorized by self-conscious gender. These schoolmates, the ones painting pictures, playing piano, reading books–some even cooking–from an early age, these schoolmates were able to take the measure of themselves, to see themselves–and to be comfortable with what they saw.

          I have spent so much of my life looking over my shoulder, not only in my childhood but also deep into my adulthood. In fact, there are still moments when I take a quick glance. What am I looking out for? I’m looking out for–what shall I call him?–the Accuser. The Accuser, should he show up, will point and say–loudly so all can hear–‘Aha, I’ve found you out! Now we can all see what you are. There’s no pretending any more.’

          I knew as a child–even as a teenager–if I should so much as show the slightest interest in one of these feminine behaviors–going on a nature hike, writing a poem, avoiding a bully–learning to cook–the door would fly open and there would be The Accuser, pointing and saying loud enough so that all might hear–my parents, my aunts and uncles, my teachers, my schoolmates–‘Aha, I’ve found you out! Now we can all see what you are. You’re a faggot. Or, worse yet, maybe even a girl. There’s no pretending any more.’

          And so I overcompensated. I lived a super masculine life–deliberately–although not necessarily because I wanted to. I stayed away from boys who–as my parents might say–were ‘that way.’ Although I fled playing team sports and instead hid in my room reading books, I was always very careful to make light of my reading and to show a great interest–entirely fake–in spectator sports. For effect, I smoked a pipe, although you’d never catch me in a suit and tie. When the opportunity came along–although I was secretly trying to dodge military service–I elected a regular, as opposed to reserve, commission (i.e., more manly), opted for a combat arm, and deported myself reasonably well in Korea and Vietnam.

          Self-conscious gender made me, you might say, what I was never meant to be: a warrior–albeit a reluctant warrior.

          So, where does this leave me? It leaves me right here. Sixty-seven years old. I’m happy. I live a good life. I do go on nature hikes, although don’t ask me to identify a bird. Sports? Well, I do get together with friends to watch the Broncos, but I do it mostly for the pizza and the conversation. I’m an avid reader; I don’t make light of it; I’m proud of it. And some of it’s poetry. As for suits and ties? Well, I’m a jeans guy. Although I know it makes absolutely no sense, there’s still this leftover voice whispering in my head: suits and ties are for men that are “that way.”

            What about cooking? I still don’t. Or so rarely it hardly counts. If I do cook, it’s only to give the Accuser one more shot. It’s to give him a chance to come into my kitchen and say, ‘Aha, there you are, trying to cook! You’re not a cook. The whole world knows. There’s no pretending any more.’

About the Author

Colin Dale couldn’t be happier to be involved again at the Center. Nearly three decades ago, Colin was both a volunteer and board member with the old Gay and Lesbian Community Center. Then and since he has been an actor and director in Colorado regional theatre. Old enough to report his many stage roles as “countless,” Colin lists among his favorite Sir Bonington in The Doctor’s Dilemma at Germinal Stage, George in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Colonel Kincaid in The Oldest Living Graduate, both at RiverTree Theatre, Ralph Nickleby in The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby with Compass Theatre, and most recently, Grandfather in Ragtime at the Arvada Center. For the past 17 years, Colin worked as an actor and administrator with Boulder’s Colorado Shakespeare Festival. Largely retired from acting, Colin has shifted his creative energies to writing–plays, travel, and memoir.

Cooking by Ray S

  
        Call it puppy love, infatuation, envy, or hero worship. One day on my way to a design consult with my client Don I realized I must be in love with the guy. Of course, he didn’t know it and the only time we got physically close was several years later when I kissed him goodbye before he moved to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. So much for unrequited love.

          One of the clinchers that turned me on about him (and there were many) was that he was a refugee from the Cordon Bleu and a disciple of Saint Julia Child. The fact was I had been summoned to consult on the decor of the newly modernized 1901 vintage kitchen. Besides the professional style appliances the focal point, as the designers say, was a framed poster of the famed Ms. Child. No NFL stars portraits or macho icons. This was my kind of guy.

          We picked up on the Cordon Bleu theme and ultimately covered the kitchen walls in blue denim vinyl. Of course it was washable. I’m nothing but practical with my clients.

          From the kitchen we moved on to complete the master bedroom. Never got any further there beyond the very butch wallpaper and paint colors. The final challenge was to create a library in what had been the front parlor.

          By this time a beautiful Platonic friendship had developed, but no more cooking on the romantic side.

          Many years have passed and we still exchange Christmas cards. Many changes have resolved various conflicts of my approach to sexual orientation, and my love for Don mellowed to occasional fantasy about what should have been and never was.

          The one bonding element for me is our mutual appreciation for cooking especially when done in the nude.

About the Author 

Cooking by Bobbi

          “Hey, hey, good looking. Whatcha got cookin’? How’s about cookin’ somethin’ up for me.”

          As a child, the only person in our home who did all the cookin’ somethin’ up for us was my Bubi Kate. (Bubi means grandma.) She and my great uncle, Yenny, lived with us. Katie wanted that small kitchen all to herself, and the only time I was allowed in was when she needed help with washing and drying dishes.

          She never made knishes which were Jewish fare, and we never had any pork. We didn’t dare.

          Katie and Yenny were from Hungary so we never went hungry. My mother never learned to cook until Grandma Kate died.

          A short history of my family is needed here in order for my story to be clear. Kate and Bela were from Hungary and met in Philadelphia. Love, marriage, and two daughters later, but they had to leave for Colorado or Bela’s lungs would crater. Tuberculosis had taken hold so Go West Young Man, they were told.

          So they settled in Denver where my mama Sallie was born in 1897 and Bela started a picture frame factory out of their home and it was like heaven. But Bela’s health continued to go down and he needed help in the business so he asked one of his brothers in Hungary to come to this town. Uncle Yenny came, learned the business, and when Bela died, he took care of Kate and raised the three little girls.

          When Sallie married Harry, my sister was born. Sallie was five months pregnant with me, and things got harried with Harry. Harry was an attorney, got into legal trouble, left town, ended up in Canyon City Penitentiary. This all caused Sallie’s bubble to burst.

          That’s why Bubi Kate and Uncle Yenny came to live with us.

          While cleaning out my Mama’s home, I found a wonderful cookbook. It’s called Famous Cook Book and was written in 1916 by the Ladies Auxiliary and given to Temple de Hirsch in Seattle. Pages 147 and 148 have Ham recipes. Baked Ham No. 1, Baked Ham No. 2, and Baked Ham and Eggs. Wonder if they got into the Dr. Seuss craze.

          My first husband, Nonny, from Brooklyn, was a pretty good cook but I struggled along with a cook book. My second husband, Max, did not cook so I learned from a Jewish cookbook. It’s called Love and Knishes and I made many good dishes.

          Alas, the Sprue has hit my gut, so I am gluten free, BUT I’ve learned to cook gluten free and my partner, Linda, has mastered gluten-free zucchini bread and other sweets so my life now is just full of treats.

About the Author

Bobbi, 82, a native Denverite, came out at age 45. “I’m glad to be alive.”