Trask Avenue

The first thing I’d do after collecting my mega-millions from the Powerball people is hire a full-time cook. Well, the first thing after fainting like an over-heated teenage girl at Shea Stadium screaming at the Beatles. I suspect if you were to chart the dietary practices of every American I would fall somewhere towards the middle with “Adonis Healthy” on one end and “Chris Christie-like” on the other. I don’t eat horribly. I know plenty of folks whose eating habits are far worse than mine, but there’s clearly room for improvement. The problem is I simply don’t have the impetus to make the corrections necessary to tilt me towards the ridiculously healthy. That’s why I need a cook.

Tonight’s dinner was a good example. I came home, rested for a bit to let Monday’s poison drain away, and felt those familiar pangs of hunger. As usual those pangs were accompanied by, “Argg, I don’t want to do anything about it. Where are the crackers?” Surprisingly, I resisted that urge because, let’s face it, there’s only so much you can do with crackers. I made a mental inventory of what else was available. Since the house is reasonably stocked after a Saturday trip to the local mega-supermarket and a supplemental Sunday run to Trader Joe’s, options were aplenty. The cupboards are not bare, although my attitude implied otherwise. After much huffing and puffing I settled on breakfast for dinner – maple and brown sugar instant oatmeal. All in all not a terrible choice. My doctor would not be horrified, although the sugar content is probably higher than a normal adult male needs at 7:00 p.m. Or over the course of a week. Naturally, my hunger was such that I didn’t settle for a package or two. I made four. It was like a big, steaming bowl of angry oats. Whatever good the oatmeal promised was surely negated by the portion size.

Like I said, I need a full-time cook.

I need a professionally trained someone who devotes his or her life to one simple goal: Feed John healthy, nutritious and delicious meals every day. Give him a nice variety and track his meals to ensure he’s getting a balanced diet. I’m not fussy. I don’t want restaurant type food every day. I simply don’t want to think about it. Ever. After I outlined my basic goals (See above: healthy, balanced and tasty meals) I’d leave the rest to the cook person. The only instruction they’d receive from me would come in the immortal words of Picard: Make it so. For these relatively stress-free services I’d generously compensate the lucky duck. Besides living rent-free in a small carriage house on my lottery winning property, I pay ‘em a nifty salary. That’s one of the beautiful fantasies about being filthy rich. You can pay people to do those things which need to be done while you’re off doing something else. More accurately, when you’re off not doing the thing you’re paying them to do. Like cooking. And laundry.