My ex-boyfriend said that the worst part of dating me was that he always had to cook. It was that either he cooked, or I paid for us to get dinner; I never offered to make him anything. To be fair, he had a point. My talents extend to Kraft Mac and Cheese and peeling string cheese, so basically, I was completely reliant on him (and Chick-fil-A) for all my nutritional needs.
Cooking just seemed like such a difficult, adult thing to do. When I was younger, my parents avoided cooking at all costs. They’d skip around the topic of dinner as if pushing it off meant that no one had to cook. Then, they’d argue in circles until one of them gave in and ordered pizza. It seemed like cooking was the most inconvenient chore to partake. If my boyfriend at the time enjoyed cooking, I just let him cook for me. He was good enough at it, and I didn’t have to torture myself by cooking.
The week my ex and I broke up, Taco Bell declared that they were removing potatoes from their menu. Their spicy potato tacos were 50% of my diet. My roommate and I probably went to Taco Bell three times a week for the aforementioned salty, starchy potato and a frozen Baja blast. How was I going to feed myself? I was at a loss. I was hungry. I was desperate. And maybe, a little bit hangry. I decided today was the day I would learn how to cook a potato. It was a lofty goal, but I’m a girl who does not scare easily. I believed in myself.
Surprisingly (and anticlimactically), it wasn’t hard to do. It was incredibly easy. Here I was: 20-years-old, crisscross-apple sauce on the kitchen floor watching a YouTube video about cutting potatoes. All I had to do was cut, oil, and bread the potato before putting in an oven set for 400 degrees Fahrenheit. (Essentially just one more step than tossing a bag of frozen crinkle fries on a baking sheet.) I then added my potato, cheese, lettuce and chipotle sauce to a small flour tortilla. I had done the unthinkable: I created Taco Bell at home.
After about a month of eating potato tacos every night, I decided to expand my cooking prowess. The potatoes were good, neigh, great, but even they got stale after a while. I had to challenge myself and I knew the challenge: chicken. Chicken was my holy grail. It’s arguably the best protein on earth and so versatile. I knew that if I could figure out how to cook chicken, I would be unstoppable.
I messed up a lot of chicken. I understand it’s a novice’s meat, but I somehow found a way to mess it up every time. Sometimes I didn’t properly cut it, and sometimes it wasn’t cooked all the way. Other times I used chicken that had been defrosted in boiling water, froze, microwaved to room temperature, and then sat in my fridge untouched for two weeks. I didn’t realize that leaving leftover chicken in the fridge for that long was so bad, and how severe the bacteria growth was. It took two nuggets to realize the damage I had done. It wasn’t until I coated a (safely defrosted) chicken breast in egg and breadcrumbs that I broke my funk. Chicken parmesan. So easy, yet so delicious. I lightly fried it in olive oil, and I tasted heaven for the first time. This recipe gave me a second wind.
I felt like a god. I was Zeus and paprika my lightning bolt, zapping recipes with the savory Hungarian spice. I had the power to create whatever dish I wanted and exactly the way I liked. Over the summer semester, I went home, and my mom banned us from all restaurants. That was fine. I just made Texas Roadhouse rolls at home – I whipped my cinnamon-sugar butter from heavy cream. When I wanted a burrito from my favorite place down the street, I made it myself! I cut green chile for queso, fluffed greasy Mexican rice, and mashed guacamole for my crunchy, restaurant-style burrito. I have a major sweet tooth and started craving molten lava cake from Chili’s. I made a perfect copy-cat for it. My powers were endless.
It took me a while to get the hang of cooking, but I’m so glad that I did. Learning how to feed myself gave me a new sense of independence properly. For this first time, I had the absolute power to choose what I put in my body. I ate great food, lost weight and began to appreciate my culinary creativity in a new way. I thought of expression in art and writing; it never occurred to me that I could express myself through a great meal of zoodles tossed in a garlic sauce of my creation.
Cooking is an art. It made me look at plain ingredients in new ways to create exciting combinations. Learning how to cook made me appreciate what I and my mind can do, with a boyfriend or without.