I can’t cook. Neither can my friend. Her interpretation of that statement might mean that while making cupcakes she finds her nose adorably dusted with flour; or that occasionally she might sprinkle a caper too many into her puttanesca. My version of being unable to cook means that I once lit a teatowel on fire while trying to prepare a sachet of couscous.
As a feminist, I’d love to say that there’s some grand statement behind my lack of cooking ability. I wish I could tell you that in my first high school home economics class, I wrenched the oven mitt from my hand and shook my fist in the direction of the patriarchy, declaring that I would reject all traditional notions of the woman belonging in the kitchen.
Similarly, it would be easy to pretend that I come from a long line of non-cookers: that my entire family are ferocious bumblers in the kitchen, and every shared meal is scooped out of a take-away container.
That’s not true either. My mother, like her mother before her, is a terrific cook. She has a scrapbook full of recipes, pasted in over the course of decades, that has lain open on the kitchen table several times a week since I was young. Although some of the meals inside lend themselves to a time when aspic was considered a table staple and marshmallows were mixed in with carrots and peas, the majority of the dishes are exactly what you would dream of emerging from a home kitchen: rich and buttery, full of flavour, served steaming hot and always accompanied by an offer for seconds.
For some reason, the ability to cook did not transfer from my mother to me. While I can recall watching her at the stove when I was a child – turning pot handles away from me, so I didn’t reach up to grab them and end up searing myself under a litre of boiling spaghetti water – I can also remember that even my early efforts were unmitigated disasters.
My father has a small but reliable stable of dishes he’s capable of preparing, and there’s even rumour of my younger brother being able to whip up a simple chicken dish, but me? Ever since mum tried to show me how to make an omelette and I burnt a hole in the kitchen rug, I’ve been relegated to an audience-only role.
It’s disappointing, and not only because my take away expenses are increasing now I live out of home. I’ve always felt that to cook someone a meal is to do more than just slap food on a plate in front of them: it’s setting aside a part of your busy day to actively care for them, to nurture them with something prepared out of the goodness of your heart.
Recipes are some of the strongest ways to preserve and honour tradition, and I delight in hearing stories of friends preparing moussaka the way their grandmother taught them, or serving a Sunday roast just the way their dad liked it.
When people visit me, there’s only one dish that I am capable of serving: baked Camembert. It sounds impressive until you realise that there’s only one ingredient (Camembert cheese) and only one preparation step (bake it) and while it’s tasty, there’s only so many times I can serve it to the same group of people before they pull me aside and ask if I subsist on a diet of melted cheese alone.
If you’re looking to make a human connection with anyone, the kitchen is the place to do it. On the occasions my housemate generously makes dinner for the both of us (occasions that have become more frequent since I ran screaming through the house one night after starting a fire in the rangehood while heating up dumplings) it’s a fantastic bonding experience, and I love pouring myself a glass of bourbon and watching him prepare a gourmet meal with what seems like only a couple of eggs, some pastry, and a trip to the spice cabinet.
A skill that comes so easily to him still eludes me, however, and no amount of four-ingredient cookbooks or helpful interventions from mates can remedy my situation. (“Just put the salad in to the bowl, Kate,” said one close friend, and returned a minute later to find me helplessly pulling shards of glass out of our meal.)
I’m 27 now, and while my mother – and my housemate, and anyone else who has kindly provided an intervention to ensure not all of my meals are store-bought – might have many years of grilling and sautéing ahead of them, it makes me sad to think that I’m not able to join in.
I might not necessarily want to recreate any of Mum’s vintage recipes for mayonnaise and jellied broccoli, but it would be nice to know that I could. Instead, I’m in much the same place as I was when I was seven: my hands being brushed away from pot handles so I don’t get hurt, watching curiously from a distance, hoping that one day, when I grow up, I might be able to cook too.
