Collegiate Times

Correction: This story has been modified from its original version. — This article has been modified from its original version. The "She said" perspective has been added. The Collegiate Times regrets this error.

She said

I would love to see Emeril Lagasse and Martha Stewart duel in a free-for-all battle of the cooking-all-stars chef-off -- you know, kind of like watching Michael Jordan and Dennis Rodman go one-on-one on the court. There'd be a Barbie doll perfectly stirring her home-made cake mix at 30 mph with a plastic smile, a lot of "bams!" and caterpillar eyebrows glaring at you and a couple of  CIA agents lurking stoically about in the audience. 

What would they do differently? Emeril's Creole fried chicken would deliciously contribute to the cholesterol build-up in your arteries, and Martha's five-tier wedding cake with the edible flowers and bride and groom figures would fool the eye into believing that it would be to-die-for if it weren't for the unjust substitution of Splenda.
It's really interesting to think that as gender roles have evolved over time, so has the possession of the kitchen changed hands. More guys now enjoy making their own meals. June Cleaver wouldn't have let her hubby even dare think of entering her feminine domain of cabinets and glory -- good thing that thought never crossed his mind, as she was expected to have his food ready for him as soon as his car door was heard shut outside in the driveway. 

But now that we're all in our college years, self-sufficiency is a priority for both sexes alike. Mommy, unfortunately, won't drive five hours every day just to feed you.
But there's no need to worry about the girls. 

For us, cooking is just another art at which to excel and reign superior. She must have skill, creativity, a keen intuition and a functional George Foreman grill -- you know, to remove all of that disgusting fat. Girls, as usual, are much more structured when it comes to preparing a meal: With a recipe card and an arsenal of spices, measuring cups, spatulas, cookie sheets, cooking mitts and a stuffed fridge, she's ready to whip out that recipe book and cook up a storm. 

Well, I guess "bake up a storm" would be more appropriate. It must be that additional X chromosome that provide us with that inherent, almost compulsive desire to bake. In fact, that's all I can do without threatening the lives of those around me. I can't even make hot chocolate without having problems, but I can make and decorate cakes that would put your grandmother to shame. With orange and maroon sprinkles.
Watching a guy cook, on the other hand, it's almost like being thrown back into a high school chemistry class. He's surrounded by rowdy-hungover-come-on-man-let's-see-what-happens-when-you-throw-that-white-stuff-over-the-flame buddies and foolishly provided with a lit Bunsen burner (in college, that Bunsen turns into a macho grill, but the friends remain the same). 

He finds preparing a meal is more of an experiment -- if I add a dash of this and a sprinkle of that, what will it taste like then? Probably like a dish that, if it were thrown in a lake, would give the fish a couple extra eyes and another tail. 

It doesn't even matter if he doesn't have the exact ingredients necessary to properly cook said dish. No sauce for that spaghetti? No need to run to Food Lion -- there's ketchup in the fridge -- that'll work just fine.
In addition to that super-sized bottle of Heinz, guys always have an assortment of marinades and spices, a couple slabs of meat, but really nothing else substantial. If anything, this is a moment to envy and give credit to that innate male ingenuity. To devise some god-forsaken edible concoction out of worcestershire sauce, spam and ramen noodles cooked in the microwave is definitely a feat of engineering. 

And I love it when these guys, just trying to be oh-so-sweet to their gal pals, serve it up to their ladies with a ridiculously proud grin on their faces -- as the girls fake a smile and muster up the courage to try it.
Take a gulp, darling, and don't worry about that extra five pounds of fat that'll be yours once you stomach the mystery. Just know that you'll have revenge once Christmas rolls around and your boyfriend devours a couple dozen of your chocolate chip cookies. 

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