GROWING PAINS
By Deirdre Fidge
I have lived in my house for eight months and do not know how to turn on the oven. I could ask my flatmates, but the Venn diagram of my need for an oven and fear of being awkward has zero overlap. Oven schmoven; gimme the microwave!
Cooking is a basic skill I haven’t yet mastered. Annoyingly, it’s a skill that constantly needs to be put into practice. When I approached 30, I was shocked to realise there are only three basic recipes I’d feel confident serving to others (well, four, if you include toast). Still, I have mastered three recipes – I’m basically Manu.
Food does not hold connotations of family or community to me. Like a lot of white people, I find a roast on Sunday is as exotic as it gets (if you know how to use your oven, that is). I appreciate meals when I dine out, but cooking doesn’t interest me. And my palate is as bland as my ancestors’ potatoes.
How do I survive? I’ll typically cook one enormous meal, and that will be my dinner for the week. I’ll make one of three things: lentil and vegetable soup, a variation of a pasta sauce, or a curry. Truthfully, these are the same dish in various forms. The ‘soup’ contains virtually the same ingredients as the other meals – the ingredients are just going for a swim.
As long as I’m getting my fruits and vegetables, I’m satisfied. I would happily take a pill once a
