What I cook when I hate cooking

...and how I claw myself out of it

Broken omelet with a malicious grin

I recently endured a prolonged phase of hating to cook. All I could see was the burden that self-renewed in an agonizing loop. How can it possibly be time to eat again?

This began following a relentless stretch of mostly work-related travel. I arrived home to a fridge so empty I could see all the dried-up bits of parsley leaves in the corners of the veg drawer and ring-shaped oil stains where the giardiniera used to be, now flecked with dust and bang hair. Great. Not only am I totally bereft of meal ideas, but I don’t clean my fridge nearly as often as I should.

Every ingredient I’d bought when I was all hopped up on some dish inspiration now looked at me with cool disdain. Nutritional yeast—ha! Two kinds of Mexican chili crisp—really? Overpriced tinned scallops that I’ll inevitably fuck up! The dried cannellini beans were especially vicious in their taunts.

“We take ages,” they sang. “And you’ll still undercook us because you’ll get so impatient that you’ll tell yourself chalky al dente beans aren’t so bad!”

I think a big part of getting through the resentment of feeding oneself somewhat well is to acknowledge that it’s a shitty proposition, too—financially burdensome, time-consuming and prone to self-reproach. Good job letting most of that arugula wilt beyond recognition, loser!

One possible release valve is hate-cooking, like I did during my recent bout of impotent rage. A frown-shaped ham and cheese omelet, violently torn open to expose orange cheese ooze because I under-oiled and overheated the skillet. A half-assed pasta with cherry tomatoes and too much undercooked garlic. A fillet of grilled salmon with bunched-up, burnt skin that I flipped before it was ready, so the meat looked like a raccoon ravaged it with its greedy little fingers.

This was disappointing.

Rage-eating is part and parcel with hate-cooking, because—as I aforementioned—you’ll almost definitely screw up some part of what you made. Am I deriving a little sick joy from the fact that these roasted potatoes are simultaneously acridly burnt yet undercooked? Maybe. But don’t even bother talking to me about it if you’re unfortunate enough to be my dining companion in that moment. If you compliment me, I’ll feel condescended to and rage at you like a red-faced toddler. If you offer gentle critique, I’ll fly off the handle and scream some conveniently feminist trope about the undue burden of domesticity. Even so, this lethal combination of childish fury and self-subjection to a crummy meal or two usually snaps me out of my funk.

If it doesn’t, I buy a whole chicken.

I don’t cook with tons of meat and poultry these days, save for smallish amounts that I treat like accompaniment or seasoning. But the thing I’ve found is, it’s hard not to feel, like, sappily grateful when you prepare and eat a whole chicken. Whether before or after roasting or simmering or whatever method feels lowest lift with highest payout on that particular day, I love to stand at the counter breaking down the chicken, using my fingers to draw the lines that tell me where I’m supposed to butcher it to yield the least waste. The pop! of the ball joint from the socket in the leg. The fat line that runs along the edge of the thigh and drumstick, guiding me to a clean cut through the joint. The smug satisfaction of slicing at just the right angle off the breastbone to cleanly remove the breast meat. As the cook, I also get to pick the luscious bits of meat left on the bone, which always taste the best.

It’s soothing to undertake this tactile, brutalist process while thoroughly aware of the sacrifice this creature made so I can eat it. “Shut up, you ingrate! You’re pretty fortunate.”

I know, Chicken. Thank you. Love you.