Lesbians - The Un-Pampered Chefs

I know there are exceptions to every rule, but lately I’ve been wondering – what the hell is up with lesbians and their lack of hostessing skills? I ask because virtually every friend I have is astounded by my ability to plan and present a dinner party. I serve up a roast, rice, garlic bread, and a vegetable and am greeted with “Ooohs” and “Aaahs” akin to those received by David Copperfield when he made the Statue of Liberty disappear!

Most of my friends are self-proclaimed neophytes in the kitchen, admittedly unable to do much more than is required to “cook” a frozen meal in the microwave. Many have more beer cozies than glassware and readily admit that what they most often make for dinner is a phone call.

I ask – is it really that unusual to be able to host dinner for eight and set the table with complementary dishes and silverware? Does the fact that I count a mundane gadget such as a garlic press amongst my possessions truly render me an anomaly in the lesbian community? Is it, in fact, odd that I can serve up martinis in actual martini glasses? Does the rendering of a complete Thanksgiving meal honestly qualify me for deity status?

I fear many of my Sapphic sisters have gone the way of lifelong bachelors as relates to their culinary skills. I suppose it can make sense for those who came to terms with their sexual preference early in life and were never, therefore, cast in a traditional role in a male/female relationship, though I don’t really attribute my ability to read and execute a recipe to my 11 years of marriage. I definitely had a fondness for Tupperware (which can most likely be ascribed to the fun rainbow colors in which the contraptions were molded) and could easily discern between a gas and an electric stove long before I took my vows.

So pray tell – why the glaring lack of gastronomic mastery, my friends? Don’t be skerred – just get out there, or rather in there, and do it! To get you started, I have recipes/directions for Asado Negro (an amazing pot roast recipe from a Venezuelan co-worker; no racial undertones intended), a three-cheese tortellini pasta salad, and pasta fagioli (my Italian ex-mother-in-law’s formula) all typed up and ready to send out. Just drop a line to Editor@gay-e-magazine.com and I’ll send ‘em along.

GAY e-magazine, the e-zine by lesbians with a sense of humor…who can also cook.

Candy Parker

Summertime and the Living is...Sweaty

If the holiday season (aka Christmas season in less P.C. circles) is the “most wonderful time of the year,” then I’d like to officially nominate the summer season as the “worst wonderful time of the year.”

As we here in the mid-Atlantic settle in for yet another day under a heat advisory, with temps into the triple digits and the humidity percentage not far behind, I long for the good ol’ days of Snowmegeddon. While it’s easy to say now, I truly prefer shoveling three feet of the fluffy white stuff to living on the surface of the sun.

I marvel at the people who claim summer as their favorite season. Really? You prefer 102 degrees and 75% humidity to the nirvana of spring or fall with their daytime highs in the low 70’s and their fresh, dry mornings? I never knew so many people loved to sweat, at least not while standing perfectly still under a ceiling fan with the A/C working overtime.

Yes, you can swim in the summer – that is if you’re unemployed and actually have time to avail yourself of the community pool. But is the opportunity to immerse oneself in a nasty mixture of water, chlorine, and urine really worth living day-to-day enveloped in what feels like a scorching, wet blanket?

And oh how people love to cook out during the summer. Of course! Nothing says, “Let’s light a radiating hot fire and stand over it grilling meat for hours,” like a sweltering summer day. Mind you, my grill and smoker sit idle in the summer months, lest I contribute further to the oppressive fever plaguing the region during those months. My grilling policy is much like my visiting the state of Florida policy – I don’t do either between June and August.

No thank you, Mother Nature. You can keep your mosquitoes, liquefied air, and blazing orb in the sky. I prefer my days as I prefer my martinis – crisp and very dry. So until a stroll outdoors is complemented by the crunching of leaves underfoot and the joyous perfume that emanates from a crackling fireplace, you’ll find me indoors gazing longingly at my fall wardrobe, tolerating soccer rather than living for football, and cursing my monthly electric bill.

Candy Parker