I kept going for about 40 seconds before I yelled, “Rotisserie Oven???” I screeched a u-turn nearly killing a mom and a van-full of kids and roared back up the road. I drive a Honda Accord—not exactly a speedster, but I swear I went from zero to a buck-twenty in about 15 seconds.
I pulled the car over and there I saw the greatest love of my life. You have to imagine it: A run-down house, paint-pealing, screen door busted. A tattered lawn gracefully rolled up into a mound of trash. There cardboard boxes overflowing with baby toys and trash bags leaking their fluids into evil puddles on the withered grass. But there, off to one side, sat my baby. I could almost hear a choir of angels singing as a divine light dropped from the heavens to illuminate it, sparkling off its white exterior and highlighting those bold red letters: George Foreman’s Big Rotisserie Oven.
I ran track in high school. There have been times in my life when I had to haul ass. Let me tell you, I’ve never moved faster than I did cramming the oven into the trunk of my car. The whole event was a lot like losing my virginity: draining, life-altering and over in about 60 seconds.
When I finally got it home, I had a chance for closer inspection. The outside was dusty and dirty, but the inside had never been used. Everything was still in its wrapping with the instruction manual. I bleached the hell out of everything just to be sure. And thence began a golden age of cooking in my life. For about two months straight I cooked everything on the rotisserie oven: chicken, potatoes, hamburgers—I was about three days from making soup and coffee in that sucker. It finally got to the point where my friends had to have an intervention.
“Ehren, when we first became friends, you used to cook all kinds of things: rice, biscuits, pancakes, and eggs. Now you only slow roast savory courses in their own juices. I don’t even know who you are anymore!”
“You guys just don’t understand me like George Foreman does! I can quit any time I want!”
I guess what this whole story really underlines, is how into cooking appliances I am. Last night, one of my friends made the mistake of giving me the Webber Baby-Q propane grill. What he knows is that I’m going to be using it a lot this summer. What he doesn’t know is that I’m kicking off the grilling season tomorrow night, ankle deep in snow in 10 degree weather.
If you think I get way too excited over cooking apparatuses, you should have seen me when I got my vibrating seat massager.
I recently realized how attractive I find women who can cook. I dated a girl whose family had the most enormous kitchen you ever saw, complete with every possible amenity and gadget for food preparation. And they cooked nothing. They didn’t even know how to make eggs. I didn’t break up with her because of that…but I might have stuck around longer if I suspected that there’d be a roast beef or something in it for me.
There’s something attractive about a girl who cooks. Maybe it’s because, deep down every guy wants a bit of the traditional wife.
There’s a downside to the change in the perception of women since the 50’s. As unfair as the idea was that a women should just be a home-maker, it was an expectation that was easy to live up to. Now the standards are so much higher. Girls are expected to be bread-winners, home-makers, care-givers, partners, and bedroom-freaks.
Guys are looking for a mixture of 1954 and 2005. We want a smart, sophisticated, sexual-uninhibited woman, with her own life plans, who can still whip up a turkey, patch up our jeans and still shuttle the kids to soccer practice on time.
I guess if there’s a moral to this whole random post it’s this: buy a rotisserie oven.
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