I was given a crock pot and recipe book, which I opened once and got a headache reading a few. Too complicated.
I gave both to the Salvation Army.
I should learn to cook, but when you are this country's foremost flash fiction writer there are other priorities. My cooking friends claim it is easy. When you're afraid of opening the oven, let alone turning it on, that is an issue.
Ovens are basically evil.
All my serious cooking is done inside my head when I am bursting through a writing project and ideas assault me from everywhere. I am a brick oven pizza above the neck, aflame with anchovy alliteration, an absurdist chef with an apron stained with imagination.
Talk about muscular prose.
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