For the past six months, I’ve been on cooking strike.
When I separated from my husband last summer, I decided I was going to put down as much foodwork as was humanly possible. This isn’t to say I was doing an unfair share of it in my marriage – my ex was much more of a meal-planner and meal-prepper than I could ever dream of being. But I mean I was trying to make a turbulent time easier and it’s much harder to cut corners with laundry and cleaning. I didn’t want to spend the time I had with my kid cooking. And I didn’t want to spend the time I had to myself cooking; don’t get me started on how exhausting divorce admin is.
I still ‘cooked’ rice and pasta, or chopped up cucumber and cherry tomatoes. What I mean is that I wasn’t doing project dinners or things that couldn’t be made quickly, with minimal prep and clean up. I wasn’t interested in, or even really capable of following a recipe. The kitchen in the rental I’m staying in only has one sharp knife and a small fridge with a tiny freezer compartment that doesn’t close properly; frost seems to multiply there faster than bacteria on a petri dish. There’s no microwave, and for whatever reason, I seem to burn absolutely everything I make here, even toast. I've had to rebuild any kind of a pantry from scratch.
So I leaned in, as much as I could, to ease.
And here’s the thing I’ve realised over the past six months or so: I don’t like cooking. It is not fun or a hobby for me. I don't find it relaxing. It is just work and I am tired.
