I'm something of a control freak when it comes to food. The grocery store is my ultimate happy place, and I prefer to shop alone or with an equally dedicated partner... someone who can appreciate a good acorn squash, and doesn't mind that I spend hours reading labels and searching for locally grown produce. I was slightly offended when Josh tagged along last week, loading our basket with ramen and frozen pizzas... the food of a desperate man, not someone with a foodie girlfriend who shudders at the sodium content in the Souper Bowl that he was so taken with. I like things in a certain spot in the refrigerator or pantry, and I almost always have a very specific use in mind for each peach, pear and plum.
You can imagine how perplexed I am to be in the living room right now (the boyfriend's domain), tapping away at the keyboard while Josh does God knows what with my potatoes. I was planning to use them for homemade mashed potatoes, or to serve them herb-roasted with chicken. He's been making noises about turning my virgin vegetables into the buttery mess that is a baked potatoe.
Don't get me wrong - I like baked potatoes. These, however, are MY potatoes.
I have issues.
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