It all started with lunch.
Kellan and I had only been dating for a matter of days when he extended an invitation to dine with him after church. I was to come over at 1:00, and he was cooking.
I didn’t know it at the time, but that was big. Huge! Like, landing on the moon huge.
At that point in our fledgling “no YOU hang up” relationship, there were things that I knew about the arm candy that I’d begun to introduce as “boyfriend”. I knew he’d spontaneously drive to the beach at 2:00 AM if given half an inkling that I’d go with him. I knew never to play poker with him. [So, let’s be serious: never to learn how to play poker.] I knew that his his iPhone functioned as an extension to his arm, he was a dazzling conversationalist, and his eyes were just dreamy…
…I’m sorry, where were we?
Like I was saying, there were things that I knew-but nobody had yet bothered to clue me into this little gem: Kellan Dickens does. not. cook.
Period. I mean, we’re talking about a man whose fridge functions more as a cupboard for bagel bites and beer.
I walked into his bachelor pad that sunny Sunday afternoon, and my heart melted a little bit. There were flickering white candles. There were roses. There was a table cloth, a bowl full of meticulously placed berries, and a bottle of the white wine he was slowly beginning to learn that I loved.
With all of the excited gusto of five year old Squanto in his school’s Thanksgiving play, he seated me and then ran over to the oven.
Carefully, with the distinct air of one that had entirely no idea what he was doing, he placed two potholders onto his hands and, looking for all the world like a chemist handling enriched plutonium, slowly opened the oven. To my unabashed delight, out came…
…two cheery yellow lunchable boxes.
It was between gasps of laughter and bites of over-processed turkey and cheese that I figured out that I might want to keep him.
We thoroughly enjoyed our lunchables and wine, and that was that. He never cooked again. And we all lived happily ever after!
Until Valentine’s day.
Several weeks ago, I walked into Kellan’s apartment for our date and was greeted by candlelight, the unmistakable aroma of molten chocolate floating through the air and the strains of “My Funny Valentine” crooning softly in the background.
If I had been wearing pearls, I would have been clutching them.
Be still my wildly beating heart, he’d cooked! Y’ALL. I’m talking sangria [oh just pour it into a big gulp], salad, “smothered chicken” [bless his heart, he made it up and it was to die for], and [drumroll please]: molten lava fudge cake.
Oh hello, fudge cake. Let’s fall in love. And have kids and drive them to soccer practice.
He’d used the google to learn everything from how to cut and caramelize an onion to how to defrost chicken [a necessary evil after attempting to cook a frozen block of chicken in the oven]-and let me tell you, nothing says “romantic” like “I googled for you”.
Once I woke up from my fudge cake coma, I decided I was never cooking again.
Unfortunately, Kellan vehemently responded that he was never going to either, which left me at quite a loss as to what on earth we’d do.
Whatever it is, it will probably have something to do with the aforementioned bagel bites.