Pasta (Or: Pasta pasta pasta)

I’ve never been a good cook. Heck, I’ve never been a cook. I have been known to believe the microwave was about to blow up, or the oven, or… So when I moved to the East coast to get my Masters at Rutgers University, I wasn’t too worried about not having anything but a fridge, freezer, and microwave.

I’ll admit it was an interesting arrangement, but the apartment was cheap enough. I lived off sandwiches most of my time there, generally PB&J or turkey with…LOTS of mustard. Most of my food and groceries came from the deli up the street. There really wasn’t a proper grocery store in New Brunswick. I could either walk a mile to K-Mart (a department store with some food) or Rite Aid in a completely different direction. Still far away.

When I moved to the town I live in now, I remember how thrilled I was just to walk up and down the aisles of Shoprite, amazed by how many options there were. I eventually purchased a George Foreman grill (that thing has saved me countless times), although I still live in an apartment that does not have an oven hookup.

When I would go over to Marco’s sometimes, we’d cook…real food. It was definitely a lot of fun. I didn’t really have any interest in cooking before that, to tell you the truth. But I did tell him of my love for mostaccioli, or penne pasta and red sauce. Of course I amused him because he would ask me to stir it, and I would be a foot and a half away trying to stir it without getting too close (remember: ovens aren’t my friend).

Pasta by a Dutchie (is that like "Chocolate by the bald man" in NYC?)

But it was oh so good. We even made garlic bread in his convection oven, with melted cheese, paprika and jalapeno slices. Yum. He understands the closest way to my heart is through my stomach!

Oh, and the bowls were a random Christmas present from his work a few years back. So apt!