Two weekends ago I craved for pasta. So I whiped up shrimps in tomato cream sauce from scratch.
Last week I thought about risotto. On the way home I passed by Oliver's (which is a grocery store here; ironically, they have bad sandwiches) and picked up some rice, parma ham and freshly grated parmesan.
There is something uniquely satisfying about cooking your own meals. It makes you feel very independent. In a primitive, I-can-hunt-wild-animals sort of way. I can actually make one half of what's in a standard Italian restaurant menu.
Cool, huh?
This line of thinking led me back to one of my favorite ideas I toy with on occassion:
I've always wondered if there was some devastating catastrophe whether I'd be chosen to live in one of those bunkers hundreds of feet underground.
The guy who makes ball pens out of straw will surely get in. So will some guy who's really good at math. I'm sure a mousy librarian who's memorized the Dewey Decimal System will be saved.
I, on the other hand, am doomed to drown in the floods or get fried in the nuclear blast.
My thinking is that "can make risotto with ingredients purchased from a specialty store" won't get me in.
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