THE NAKED COOK

Michael Safdiah copyright 2002

"People seem to like me the most when I try the least."

I am definitely not The Naked Chef. I love being nude as much as anybody, but I won’t sling my naked tits over a hot range any more. Not even for you. Well, maybe for you. Too many chances for burns. I did it once long ago. I’d just met Billy, my second lover. It was Sunday morning and I wanted to make a nice impression after our impression-making the wonderful long night before.

That old world cluttered little kitchen in my West Tenth Street apartment had a window that opened to the morning sun, and which, in true Greenwich Village fashion, I had built shelves in front of, loaded with hanging plants, and tchatchkees. (I can’t spell in Yiddish). It overlooked the bell tower of St. John’s church on Christopher Street, and the birds in the yard behind us were chirping away. You could hear them thru the opened window letting in the springtime air. It was the perfect morning after.

Coffee, in those days was (ugh) instant Maxim, fresh fruit, toasted supermarket corn muffins and yes, a cheese omelet -- perfect. Odd that I remember what we ate that morning, but Billy was special. You’d want to remember everything about him. So there we both were, dressed for the previous events, which means buck raw, and still sweetly touching, and I’m fixing the eggs in my skillet, and time comes to flip the eggs.

"I’ve always wondered how they flip them over in the pan. Do you know how?" and all the while he is gently distracting me. I knew he was special, there was nothing I wouldn’t have done to keep him and make him mine, so of course here goes me again trying to make points when none ever needed to be made.

"Sure. Watch. I’ll do it for you. You have to EASE the eggs to the far side of the pan, awaaay from you and as they get there, while they’re still moving, sort of to surprise them, you YANK them back towards you and CATCH them in the pan -- WATCH"

Well, what he saw was dumb-ass me tossing a heap of hot cheese omelet onto my dumb-ass hairy chest, and having it slide down to scald everything in its path. Use your imagination. It was a moment to REALLY remember. We still laugh about it today nearly thirty years later. We’re still family, even though he’s married and has a beautiful girl child. I should have learned my lesson right then, but no, there were the naked exploding soft shell crabs (If you fry them too fast the moisture in their legs makes them steam up and ka-boom), the naked french fries, the naked fried do-nuts, and the naked pancakes. (You don’t want to know)

So now when boy friends ask me if I’ll cook for them naked, I say, "Yes sure" but I know that’s just part of the seduction, and that I’ll definitely wear an apron at least. When my buns sag, I mean really sag, I’ll end up cooking in jeans again. There’s lots more romance in toasting store bought muffins and Aunt Jemimah than in getting up and making them from scratch, even if its a labor of love, you distract yourself from the main event, which is that significant other. So get up, pour some OJ, bring it to him with a kiss, and crawl back in, where you belong.

Love, Michael