She's Writing a Novel

Tonight I'm going to try and get over my fear of the kitchen. There is a large slab of beef in our freezer, which apparently the Russian mother had plans for; however, these plans were never realized and so the beef remains. But now I have plans for the beef.
Dinner is usually a reflection of what is abiding in the freezer; or rather, whatever the Russian has thawed from the freezer when I get home. The Russian lover does 99%, which is to say all, of the cooking in our house. Yes, he's just that good. He's ruined most restaurants for me forever; now whenever I wind up at a sub-par place all I can think is What is this crap they're trying to pass off as food? His stuff is so much better than most of what restaurants serve, and that's when he's not even trying. I fetishize his mushroom soup, his citrus marinated salmon, his fine-chopped salads; all of which he just whips up like it's his job.
But all of that has made me terribly insecure about rolling up my sleeves and having a go at it myself. The first time he watched me peel something I swear...he stood over my shoulder and tried to make sense of what he was seeing. "It's as if you determined the most ineffective way to take the skin off a potato and proceeded to adapt that as the method" he said. Or something like that. In any case, my general ineptitude is easily overcome when I have the persistance to try; I just rarely do. Besides, our apartment kitchen, like all apartment kitchens, is made for one, and that one should be the one who can make some delicious food before tommorow.
But lately I've been feeling sort of...lame about my culinary reticence and ashamed about my apathy in the dinner department. And a slab of beef...well? That is something I can do. Because this girl, even this girl, can surely figure out how to make a stew. How hard can it be? Some potatoes, some carrots, some onions, a splash of red wine, a few dashes of this and that...ignore the simmering pot or stir it idly while reading about the dubious origins of the Koran and Voila! Dinner is served.
I think once the oven is fixed I'm going to introduce the Russian lover to the casserole. He does not know what a casserole is, really. Can you imagine? We Mennonites were raised on casseroles; if you can't throw it all together into corningware and bake it, I probably never ate it growing up. We are the one-dish wonder people. If you try to serve a Mennonite food in the form of a main dish and sides, they are going to mix it all up together on their plate and then stir in some gravy for good measure. Once it looks like something that has come back up, then and only then are they ready to chow down.
Such is my gastronomic heritage.