By Ken Rickard
Advertiser Staff Writer

A lot of people say that women like men who can cook. I guess that could be true, but I have a cooking problem: I only have the ability to cook in portions that feed an army.

Yes, I am that guy.

I'm the guy who boils 30 pounds of ribs and fills the barbeque pit with aromas of maple and hickory.

I'm the guy who makes 10 cups of rice (using flawless Mount Fuji technique) because I figure everyone will eat at least the two-scoop equivalent of a plate lunch.

I'm the guy who shows up with a barrel of homemade potato salad and says, "please take some home with you or I'll eat it all myself, ha ha." (That little uncomfortable laugh at the end is there because I know I will eat 11 helpings of potato salad if it's in my fridge.)

I learned how to cook by watching a kitchen full of friends and family prepare meals for Super Bowls, Thanksgiving feasts and Christmas dinners.

In short, I learned how to cook big.

I do feel comfortable in the kitchen and next to the grill, as all men should, but I live alone and lack the skills and confidence to cook for one.

Let's see if this sounds familiar: It's Friday night, and a bowl of spaghetti for dinner seems like a good call. You buy a pound of beef because that's the smallest package you can find. A jar of sauce, a package of noodles and some vegetables later, you're ready to prep.

In the kitchen, you cook all the beef and use the whole jar of sauce because they'll just rot in the icebox. Now you have a saucepan full of, er ... sauce, so you figure you have to use the whole bag of noodles to keep the pasta-to-sauce ratio correct.

Two boiling pots and a sinkful of dishes later, dinner is pau. You fill your bowl with a healthy portion when you notice there are enough leftovers to eat for an entire week.

Thus, the menu for the following few days is:

• Saturday: spaghetti.
• Sunday: spaghetti sandwich.
• Monday: cold spaghetti.
• Monday midnight snack: spaghetti.
• Tuesday: spaghetti omelette (time to get creative).

You get the idea.

Somewhere along the way, I think someone neglected to show me the place on the recipe card that says "for half the servings."

It's there, I checked.

However, it is too late for me. You can't teach a guy out of college new tricks, and I'm not going to learn how to cook in smaller portions.

So the solution is that I no longer cook for myself. My fridge is a wasteland of condiments waiting to accompany a home-cooked meal (that, and choke beer).

The next time you see a guy at a barbeque, take a closer look. He probably has 30 or so burgers and a package of hot dogs grilling away. And he's only with a party of four.

There is a pretty good chance that guy is me.

And all I wanted was a sandwich.

Reach Ken Rickard at krickard@honoluluadvertiser.com.