My cooking is regressing faster than Benjamin Button can turn into a baby. The previous 4 years living with roommates I cooked probably 3-4 times a week. There was always someone over who was willing to eat my meals, no matter how limited my repertoire may be. If it wasn’t me making the menu, I was always helping chop, dice, or julienne anything that needed to be cut into exactly identical shapes, thanks to my cooking prep class in college. But now that I’m living alone, it’s come to a screeching halt.
Don’t get me wrong, I love living alone. I can sit in my underwear as long as I want, talking aloud to my cat(s), blasting Taylor Swift, without any judgment. But It’s much less fun cooking for one. I really see no point of it. When I moved to NY, I was determined to cook often, even though the temptation to eat out can be heard to resist. I even bought an ‘easy vegetarian cookbook’ to encourage this. That only lasted a few months. The last thing I made using the stove was in May.
I now see my delivery man as much as I see Peter and Hilarie. (I see them almost everyday…) I have racked up $15 in gift cards and 12,000 points from delivery.com (which can be redeemed for a variety of fun things). The only reason I know my stove still works is when I’ve needed to light a candle. I roll up a paper towel, light it on the stove, light the candle, then douse the flame under the sink. I’ve yet to start a fire.
Maybe I’m just becoming an official New Yorker. I’d heard rumors that they never cook and store sweaters in their ovens. I’m currently storing a table in front of my oven, so I’d say I’m almost there.
I also bought a couch for my cat. Or at least that’s what she thinks.