I am afraid of many things.
Cooking is one of them.
To combat this fear, I am sometimes able to achieve a state of cognitive dissonance that entails extreme avoidance. Namely, I convince myself that if I ignore my roaring stomach, it'll go away. Not my stomach, that is, but you know...the hunger. I wish I were speaking of some super-emo existential hunger, but that's another story.
Today, I was hungry. Shocker! I ate all the food I had in my room, and since I didn't have class (no one has class on Wednesdays, but sometimes you have field studies--more on those, later) I didn't go into the city. Eventually, I realized I might have to go to the kitchen.
This was an unnerving thought. It really shouldn't have been; the Danes on my floor seemed nice enough. It was my cooking skills I was worried about.
I thought of running in, grabbing my mammoth cucumber, and running back to my room. I thought about it again, realizing that absconding with any suggestively-shaped variety of vegetable would label me much more decidedly than any lack of cooking skills. I had no desire to be THAT girl.
So I opened the door, and the Danish guys asked me something, to which I responded "En Engelsk?" and everything just kind of went from there. They thought it was pretty cool that I was from New York, and I thought it was pretty cool that they were from Denmark (I didn't tell them that).
They told me about Danish reality shows, and I told them about Netflix. Apparently they have a system like that here, but it's pretty sketchy.
As for the cucumber? It (he?) and my red pepper made a delicious light dinner along with a roll of bread and some peanuts. And since no meal would be complete without me dropping food on the floor, I nodded in satisfaction when the last chunk of cucumber landed on the tile and bounced halfheartedly. I have marked my territory.