In a cooking rut
I think I’ve had enough of cooking.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. I like to cook. In fact, recently I
spent a whole weekend cooking, which actually was really fun. I had
a dinner party for four on Saturday night and a brunch for 15 the
following morning.
In a cooking rut
I think I’ve had enough of cooking.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. I like to cook. In fact, recently I spent a whole weekend cooking, which actually was really fun. I had a dinner party for four on Saturday night and a brunch for 15 the following morning.
I thought that it would do me in, but it was invigorating in a way that I hadn’t experienced before. Maybe this is why chefs do it, I thought while juggling the two meals.
Then I realized what it was that I didn’t like about … well, not cooking, but the whole entertaining thing.
I like cooking. I just don’t like cleaning up.
This is nothing new for me. I am happy to make messes, but care little for the aftermath.
It was a revelation for me, years ago, when I took a cooking class in Monterey. It was the most heavenly experience. Not only were all the ingredients right there at hand when I needed them, there were people to help me figure out what to do.
Not only that, I was out of my house, in a spotless professional kitchen, so very unlike my slightly soiled equivalent at home.
All the tools I needed were within reach. I didn’t have to go hunting through the back of the utensil drawer for the spatula or the rolling pin or the paring knife.
I could simply concentrate on the task at hand, which was making a strawberry custard pie from scratch. Crust and all. And it turned out quite well, if I do say so myself.
And then when it was all over, I simply left, leaving the untidiness to someone else.
I had all the fun of cooking without the responsibility of washing dishes. It was paradise.
It made me realize, too, how nice it would be to be a chef. You’d have someone doing the prep work for you, and you’d have someone to wash dishes. There would be space to be creative in between.
But then it was back to reality, where most of the time I’m the chief cook and bottle washer.
I’ve been noticing lately that I’m running out of steam where cooking is concerned. I have a basic repertoire of about 10 reliable meals; they are not necessarily the meals that I like, but the ones that my teenage son will eat.
He’s rather picky for a teenager, but believe me, he’s much better than he was as a toddler, when he ate nothing but chicken nuggets and peanut butter sandwiches (white bread, no jelly, just peanut butter, the smooth kind) for years.
So I’m stuck in the tacos-on-Tuesday rut, at least for the next year and a half. Provided that he does decide to go away to college. If not, I’m stuck with cooking for him for a lot longer.
Sure, there are alternatives to cooking. We could have fast food every night. Of course, this gets expensive, not to mention artery-clogging. (Of course I know there are salads at McDonald’s, but do you honestly think I’m going to choose a salad over a McChicken and fries? Not likely.)
So as much as I’d like to give up on cooking altogether, I don’t think it’s going to happen for a while.
But once my last kid is gone from the house, it will be a different climate altogether. I can start making what I want to eat. I can choose to live on soup, or raw fruit, or polenta, or whatever strikes my fancy.
And who knows? Maybe I will get excited about cooking again.
It might be time to take another class.
