I cooked. no, really, i actually cooked myself.

Last night, on the hottest day NYC has seen in 2008, I decided to cook. Did I mention we don't have air conditioning in the kitchen? Did I mention it was over 95 degrees? Doesn't matter. I got it in my head that I was gonna cook myself (M. had dinner plans) a meal. Why is it that I rarely have a desire to cook but last night, when it was sure to be the most uncomfortable experience, did I decide to turn the oven up to 400 and use three burners? It's because I don't have the sense of someone who does, actually, cook. I'm missing that basic skill set. Someone who frequents the kitchen and knows there way around various cooking apparatuses knows that when it reaches a certain temperature outside, you order in, you go out or you eat whatever you can find melting in the freezer. But not me, the kitchen is still such a foreign place to me that wandering in there on a blazing day doesn't seem altogether ridiculous.
I ended up making a really delicious, satisfying dinner. I tossed some chicken breasts in pesto than baked them. I steamed some broccoli and cooked some rotini (though in my world, these are called squiggely noodles, since that's what I grew up calling them). I chopped up the chicken and the broccoli into small pieces and threw it into the pasta with more pesto, peas and corn. It was seriously good but I had to take a shower after the whole ordeal because I had worked up such a sweat in the sauna that had become the kitchen.
I wouldn't do it again - I guess I had to prove to myself that you really should not stand over a stove or use the oven when there is a weather advisory to beware of the heat.
Ok, now I know.