Look, I know this isn’t a big deal for most people above the age of fourteen; even on The Sims, as soon as you stop being a kid you can start pissing about with pots and pans and making whatever the hell goopy carbonara is. But for me, cooking has never been something I’ve, like, done.
When I lived at home, there was the pleasant combination of me having absolutely no interest in my own health, and my parents insisting I ate three times a day: I didn’t crave food, nor did I reject it, I just got on with my life, occasionally going to the kitchen at regular intervals to have rice and breaded chicken nuggets shovelled down my gullet like an industrial-sized wood-chipper. And that was my relation to food for literally all of my life until today.
Having lived off nothing but cereal and toast since New Year’s, and only dabbling in the monthly stir fry or so last term, I googled some cheap vegan recipes, went on an Odyssey to the only Tesco in London that sells things other than ready meals and pre-made sandwiches, bought about half of the necessary ingredients and busked the rest, and threw it all together to create something that wasn’t too shockingly dissimilar to pasta and mushroom source. And it looked rather like vomit, and tasted more of water and chilli powder than much else, but I made that shit.
I might get more into cooking now that life is settling into an old-fashioned revision slog again; I don’t have a society or three to go to every day, nor lectures in the morning to screw up lie-ins and attempts to get the ever-elusive but beautiful ten hours of sleep a night I was getting this time last year. Now, if I can rearrange working times as I did today, I should have a few evenings free to actually make food, which is rather exciting. Because even for me, toast gets old after a while.
Just don’t expect me to sign up to Instagram and star whoring my pictures of spinach casserole and vegan pigs in blankets with you. I have standards.