Chicken.

This week, during Ian's and my attempt at cooking "together", I learned the wonders of being a supervisor. You just pour yourself a drink, sit down on the couch, and holler instructions during the commercials of Everybody Loves Raymond reruns. Or at least, that's what I did. And I chopped a few vegetables. But mostly I sat on the couch.

Forgive me, if you will, for impeding the progress of this culinary experiment. You see, we had just returned from a "picnic" at Bear Lake, where I was supposed to meet all the lovely people with whom I will be going to school for the next two years. The picnic started at two and we high-tailed it out of there at exactly 4:15. This is not because it was horrible. In fact, it was rather bland. The part that made it scary was entirely inside my mind. I am not a social person. Nor is Ian. I have not had to meet large groups of new people in...four years? I have been so surrounded by Ian's friends, most of whom are entirely left-brained and socially awkward themselves, that I was intimidated by the large group of beautiful people (who knew that 80% of the writers present would not only be social butterflies, but brightly colored ones at that?).

This is not to say I didn't talk to anyone. I did. But I didn't talk to very many of them, and I found I had little to say. Then again, who expects writers to be so chatty? When I think of writers, I think of hermits, social outcasts, disfigured visages in bell towers. I know that's extreme. But think of Emily Dickinson. The woman was a shut-in. Think of Emily Bronte. It's not exactly a broad sample of writers on which to base an opinion, but I did. Because I am one of them, in my way. I like people, but not en masse. I don't like forced social events. I don't (despite my love of food) like eating in front of strangers, and though I brought a lovely corn and bean salad, I never approached the food table or took credit for my cooking.

So of course, when we got home, I polished off a few handfuls of corn chips, made a drink, and parked myself in front of the TV. I was disappointed in myself for being such a chicken and for not getting into character on the drive up--if I had played the part of Chatty Cathy, I would have been fine. But I wouldn't have been me. I would have been someone who would inevitably disappear a few weeks into the program and my classmates might find that the girl they liked so much was only an illusion.

Ian (with my supervision) made a Thai dish--Green Curry Chicken. It sucked. Through no fault of Ian's, of course. He followed the recipe precisely. It was just...unimpressive. Maybe it was missing the love.