When life gives you lemons, cook something
Let’s just get this out of the way: Yes, I’m a food writer who doesn’t cook. But believe me, I eat so hard and so well that it more than makes up for my lack of skills in the kitchen. Plus, I bake. So there’s that.
I grew up with a mom who didn’t cook, either. She was a teenage single mom when I was born, so I think it’s fair to forgive her for raising me on a strict diet of Kid Cuisine microwave meals and Taco Bell drivethru.
Then I met the man who would become my husband at age 23, and one of his many great qualities is that he loves to cook. Like, every single day, without complaint. Unlike me, cooking dinner doesn’t stress him out but rather acts as a calming boundary between his day at work and night at home.
I hated to take that great pleasure away from him, and so I (very valiantly, no?) had always stayed out of the kitchen, allowing him to prepare each and every meal we’ve eaten in our nearly 12 years of marriage.
Except he doesn’t live here anymore, and I, along with our two young children, still need to eat.
It doesn’t feel real, the separation, and this new requirement to nourish myself and the kids three times a day feels especially brutal amid my hazy new reality. But this story isn’t about my dis belief, my intense sadness or what anybody did wrong; it’s about how I’m learning to do something I never thought I’d learn to do, at a time I never thought I’d have to experience.
The first few weeks were about deciding that I could do what I’d long resisted. That I could actually cook. That doesn’t mean it tasted good — nope! — but I could use heat to do something to a protein, fat, spices and some vegetables, and we wouldn’t starve.
My goal was to continue cooking dinners similar to the ones my husband made, which meant from scratch and reasonably (but not overly) healthy. That’s what the kids were used to, and I