I’m a terrible cook.
No matter how much Chopped, Nailed It!, or Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives I watched when I was little, I still can’t bake, cook, or function in a kitchen. I’m lucky if I can manage not to overcook my stovetop ramen noodles.
Usually, when “we” are baking something, I sit nearby, begging for scraps alongside my dog. I don’t really contribute unless the next step could be done by a five-year-old. When we baked Christmas cookies this year, the only thing I did was frost them. I didn’t even cut the shapes out this time around.
When I was really young, I used to beg to help, and if I was lucky, I could maybe pour a teaspoon of vanilla, hold the mixer when it was on low, or knead the dough. It’s rare that I even see the process before the product enters the oven nowadays.
If I don’t follow the instructions to a tee, whatever winds up on the baking sheet or in the pot will surely be inedible. Even if I am looking at the recipe, and the creation I make on the rare occasion is shockingly mediocre, I can’t help but think that I’m not really cooking. I didn’t do anything except follow in the footsteps of those who created the recipe.
But, on the off-chance that I am cooking for the family, it’s never anything beautiful. It’s a low-effort, crummy, unhealthy meal that was pulled from the shelves of Costco, popped into our fridge, and then yanked back out moments before my parents came home so they at least have something ready for them when they arrived.
It’s edible, and I’ve grown to have a taste for these meals.
But at the end of the day, I’m left feeling empty. Other than the protein and carbohydrate amounts listed in the nutrition facts, there is nothing substantial in these cheaply made dinners I throw together last minute.
A lot of the time, my parents opt for a microwave meal or leftovers—leftovers that are usually several days old. Even that has more emotion and depth to it than whatever I made that evening in minutes.
I’ll never be a good cook, quite honestly, but I don’t really like cooking or baking, so that’s just fine. I’ll tell myself that, anyway, but for some reason, I still feel guilty when I don’t help my sister or mom cook even though I know I’d just be another body in the kitchen. But for now, I’ll stick to my stovetop udon.
