I've started cooking. For anyone who knows me that must be a surprise. I am famously and historically prep assistant to my boyfriend (now husband) - and a famous washer of dishes in payment if the man in my life will do the dirty work of cooking.

Not that I can't cook - or even don't like to cook - I can and do. But, I really like prep work - I get the most bizzare satisfaction from mincing garlic and I enjoy the challenge of prepping stringy ginger.

However, having acted as prep to some seriously good cooks I actually know and understand a bit about cooking. And - as I once used to gladly do the dishes after a meal - now (due to our living arrangements) it is such a chore and for a time seemed so unfair that it became a point of contention.

The other day we bought a dishwasher. Now - in case you don't know my kitchen is the size of most folks closets - literally. It is about 6 feet wide. And is a simple galley along one side of the hallway/foyer between the main room of my apartment and the bathroom.

A dishwasher? Yes - really - this one...

I'm not saying there was any quid pro quo between the dish washer and the advent of my cooking for our dinner, but it sure makes things nicer around here. And the dishwasher is novelty enough for us to spend time watching it and delighting in the clean, hot dishes it produces.

So - even before we had it, I just up and started cooking dinner. It all started one night when the husband was getting home on his own schedule and I was getting a bit peeved about how late my dinner was going to be once he finally got home and made it for me and - duh, duh, duh - I just decided to make dinner myself.

It was good.