I notice that most of the successful chefs in the world are guys. Also, I heard that men make better dough than women because of their naturally warmer palms, which makes the dough, well...better.

I have always been fascinated to know if there is some truth to it, and I wanted to test myself to see if one gender is indeed better than the other in culinary undertaking.

After few domestic chores that I had to put up to help the wife this past week (kind of like pre-Spring cleaning), tired, we both felt wanting to relax at the end of that Sunday evening, but the call of my crumbling stomach was getting louder and was harder to get ignored, and I supposed she must be, too!

From what I figure, she seemed to have cooking-withdrawal syndrome at that time, and I wouldn't bother her to prepare us supper anymore after our day's chores.

Ordering pizza or Chinese dish also did not raise my equally unmotivated butt to pick up the phone. We both looked at each other, and neither of us budged to accept the humble obligation of preparing supper.

After awhile (I guess, guys really have a shorter rope for handling hunger) I, then, finally went to the kitchen, rummaged through the freezer and skimmed over pantry contents, and decided to undergo for a hunger quick-fix task. I was going to cook for supper.

"...and the best way to cook for supper?" I asked myself, but no definitive answer came out from my imaginative mind.

Suddenly, this pot of sticky rice mixed with seafood swirled enticingly across my head as if saying: "Bring me in! Bring me in!"

Aha! Paella! This visually uninviting, but wonderfully-tasting black paella I remember being served to us in a Manila restaurant. I suppose it was the squid ink that turned the rice so dark, and when you chew, it leaves a temporary stain to your teeth. I truly enjoyed it though.

Later I had full array of pot and pan, left a couple of crabs to thaw in the sink, couple cups of parboiled rice, and little tins of spices.

Honestly, I didn't know how it was cooked or made. The only guide I would have this time was my visual memory of how it looked like, but imitating taste would be a real challenge.

And of course, aside from my hunger, this self-commissioned task that I put myself upon was to essentially prove one thing: if guy like me (err, not necessarily chef) is a better cook.

Secondly, it's either she dispels the statement that "men tend to be better cooks" or it retains its credibility (at least between the two of us). In all this, the critic would be my wife who was unaware of this probe something for something I put myself into.

In the latter case, it wouldn't do me any good, believe me. I do not look forward to cooking, and besides I do not have the ability to repeat the same dish over and over. It's always been a matter of trial-and error for me.

After several minutes, I started dishing out everything in the pan: crabs, what-have-you spices, rice and tomato sauce (rice and tomato sauce? I was not sure this is right, but where I would I get sticky rice and squid ink? Anyway, parboiled rice is healthier, and orangey or any bright-looking colour dish would be more appetizing, I guess, ha ha!). I then put the lid on, let it steam for awhile.

Soon, the rice started to heave from the pan. Completed with garnish of sliced dill on top, I set the table.

"Hon, would you like to eat now?" I hollered to my wife down in the family room watching her favorite show.

"It's done now? What did you cook? she asked in return while heading to the kitchen and eventually peeked at the steaming pan of paella now on the table.

"Remember the paella in Manila I told you about? Well, that, I took inspiration of!" I answered in a dashing manner while untangling the apron strings from my back and expectantly waiting for any sort of incoming praise from my designated and unsuspecting critic.

She grabbed a spoon, dig a small portion of paella from pan's rim edge and brought it up to her mouth to taste. She chewed slowly that I couldn't wait any longer for her most-awaited judgment.

So I asked.

"So, how did you like my paella?" as I winked my eye on her and my smile arched stretchfully to both my ears signifying a perceived glorious anticipation for her impartial and honest approval.

"Arvin, this is almost perfect..." she smiled and continues, "you may would want to be less generous with salt, though...and it's a bit hot for paella!"

I recall sprinkling that crimson-looking powder from one of the round tins to the dish. It was chili powder!

We finally sat and ate. Though, I noticed along the course of our supper that she would occasionally sip from her glass.

I completely know what it meant.

Though my pride was not crushed, in retrospect, I realized something: kitchen is not my turf. After all, my wife loves being in the kitchen cooking (this time maybe was one of the few exceptions).

Next time, I'll stick to what I know better doing at in the kitchen, eating and well...running the dishwasher and putting away everything back to cupboard, ha ha!

A dignified kitchen's aide-de-camp, to be more precise. :-)

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