In Which I Become Domestic

I love my new apartment so much it borders on obsession. I would post photos, you know, but then that might be internet TMI. Also, we're still waiting on some furniture and I want to have the whole kit and kaboodle set up before I go all out posting pictures and expecting compliments.

That said, being in the apartment has sent my emotions on a whirlwind. Last night, at Bed, Bath and Beyond (also known as the flaming Gates of Hell to some), I actually bought a pyrex pie dish.

Just who do I think I am?

I don't know how to cook. Hell, I really don't know how to bake. But being in this apartment makes me want to cook, clean, organize, decorate, and just exist in the apartment. Graham and I made our first dinner two nights ago. Check out the recipe here. It was easy as hell, and delicious. Also: it made enough to feed us for lunch for two days. How to save money 101: cook dinner at home.

Dueling Sarah Michelles: Forcibly Domestic / Naturally Domestic

I think up until recently I had always shied away from housework and cooking because I'm pretty lazy, and I'm a feminist. There's just something about being in the kitchen, with my hair all in my face, covered in flour that just screams June Cleaver to me (in a bad, non-sexy, sad, pathetic way). But, ah, with age and maturity comes the realization that cleaning your apartment and cooking your own food just means that you're an adult. It doesn't really have anything to do with feminism. And yes, you want to divide these chores with your partner (if you have one). Lucky for me, my boo unloaded the dishwasher last night.

Basically, I just want my life to be filled with wonderful food, and I want an apartment with fresh flowers. I'm almost there guys. I can almost taste it. (Now if only I could find a better job).

Let's ask Giada. Can domesticity be sexy?

Whoa. Whoa there.

I'm not quite ready for that.