At first, my cooking was limited to making hot air popcorn with my college roommate. Kernels embedded in the living room carpet. Our other roommate once took out the vacuum cleaner and plopped it down in front of us. During a summer semester in France, I developed a taste for Dijon mustard. Back at my university, I cooked chicken breast in a toaster oven and topped it with Dijon mustard. After college, I was briefly married but never cooked for my husband. He never complained that I didn’t cook. He only complained that I didn’t do his laundry. After our separation, I met an artist who lived in my building. He cooked dinner for us every night. He even packed my lunch. He made pesto from scratch and put it on smoked turkey sandwiches. He taught me the basics—how to cook pasta and rice. I made penne pasta and marinara sauce with fresh ricotta on top. When we broke up, my cooking fizzled out except for the occasional pot of rice with chicken bullion, a microwaved sweet potato, or shredded carrots with olive oil and lemon juice. Now I do even less. Cooking means heating a TV dinner in the microwave.

By Karol Nielsen

From: United States

Website: https://karolnielsen.com

Twitter: karol_nielsen