For the last two days, I have become a foodie. One that does not involve cooking or food at all really. Just me, my computer, a stack of faded recipe cards and a chocolate bars. A dreams of food.

In preparation for my upcoming transition from living-at-home part-time student to full-time wife, sole tidier of 700 feet of apartment and novice chef for two, I have begun filling a wooden tea box with note cards full of scribbled copies of the dishes my mother brought to life.

This sparked my imagination and brought on the not-so-shocking conclusion that I have very little idea of how to cook. So using the vast interwebs at my disposal, I am assembling guidelines of basic culinary masterpieces and descriptions beneath tantalizing photos.

My main connoisseur will be a slightly particular man who claims he is not picky but whose list of food he tolerates includes a string of meats and desserts with lemon. And risotto. His bachelor years were filled with chicken and tuna. Followed the next day by more chicken and so on.

However, equipped with a shiny new kitchen and a set of green handled cooking instruments, I am determined. My marriage life will include decent, edible home cooking more varied than frozen pizzas and oatmeal. Or I shall die in the attempt (of food poisoning most likely).

Future updates will tell of my triumph…or failure.

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