"Can you cook?" he asks casually.
I pause in middle of twirling my pasta. Uh-oh.
"I can cook," I attempt to explain, hoping a defensive note wasn't creeping into my tone. "It's just that when you live with an amazing chef like my mother, any of my efforts are kind of moot."
He nods, and asks something else, but I have a feeling I just flunked the test.
He is not first, nor the last, guy to ask. I try to dazzle them with my other hobbies - shopping ("Do you need a suit? You're a 42 Regular, right?"), painting ("Well I wouldn't say I was Michelangelo, exactly . . . "), super child-raising skills ("By the time my nephew was sent home he was not only potty-trained, he could make omelettes.")
He takes in all these tidbits with a pleasant smile, but I know that on his mental checklist, I have been crossed out.
Am I imagining it, gentlemen?