Only Thyme Will Tell

While peeling potatoes last Sunday, a thought griped me, much like a crab pinching my finger. In fact, for a moment, I thought a crab was pinching me, except that the nearest thing I had to a crab were crabsticks, and the last time I checked, they couldn’t move.

But don’t let crab distract us; I was wondering why I am so enthused about cooking? What could drive me to master a skill I previously viewed as unnecessary and esoteric?

As always, the prime suspect is a woman’s charm. After all, there have been countless cases of males taking crash courses in cooking so as to impress their special other during special dates like Valentine’s Day or an anniversary. However, unless I particularly wish to wine-and-dine my alter-ego, I doubt that would apply to me. And please spare me the rancid notion that I’m doing this to butter up girls. That is so fowl an insinuation that its asserter ought to be roasted in hell, preferably with lemon juice on top.

Perhaps so I can cook when I go overseas? But if so, why am I concentrating on impractical aspects like garnishing and appearance, as well as desserts and exotic dishes which take forever to make. In fact, Ken chive-d me the other day, saying I always choose recipes more suitable for dinner-parties rather than for daily-consumption.

Real-love for cooking? Or maybe to batter myself? Nah!

Pretty fishy if you ask me, but I shall stop carping for it’s distasteful. The reason for this sudden passion then? I don't know, only thyme will tell.