Hey, Good Lookin'

The truth is that I love cooking for my boyfriend. Maybe I shouldn't, being a feminist and all. Maybe I ought to curl my lip and sneer each time he rolls his eyes upwards at me, like a hopeful puppy in search of a treat. I'm not your mother. I'm not the maid. There's the stove. There are the pans. You're a grown man - feed yourself.

I could say that ... but I don't think being a feminist means you're not allowed to look at a grocery store. Being independent means exactly that - you support yourself and that includes nourishment. I'm not the maid, but I don't employ one, either. Don't fret for me - Fifi's dinners would only pale in comparison to mine. The woman just doesn't love it like I do. And I do love it. What I love even more is how much he loves it.

I suppose it’s not so horrible. After all, I loved cooking for my (very female) college roommates, too. Cooking has always been one of my favorite ways to show affection. After graduation, it’s true that I relished the freedom of living alone but I must admit that there was very little excitement in the way of eats in those days. After all, what’s the fun in cooking for your lonesome? None, not even when your tupperware-d homemade dinners lure your co-workers to your desk, sniffing in envy. Ah, but serving up something lovely to a hungry boy who greedily scarfs down every bite? That’s pleasure.

The other day, my boyfriend told me that he is thrilled when I tell him I’m cooking dinner, that my "come hungry!" texts send him into a tizzy of wonderment. I freely admit the confession made me giddy with delight.

You see, my take on it is that my love of cooking for this man isn’t about female submission; it’s about female dominance. I’ve tasted the man’s cooking and clearly, I am the King of the World.