Servantless American cook

I hate cooking. I really do. Anything “from scratch” is typically exhausting and kitchen destroying in my view. I cook as an act of survival because myself and my family needs to eat. Some who view my “repertoire” might assume me to have a limited or unrefined palate — I don’t think that’s true. The fact of the matter is I greatly enjoy eating and trying new foods, I just do not enjoy preparing food. The addition of a toddler to the mix does nothing to help my apathy on the matter.

We are friends with many "foodies" and cooking enthusiasts. While on the one hand this grants the occasional opportunity to taste lovely things, it also leaves me with an irrational feeling of inadequacy or feeling judged. Not directly judged mind you — our friends would never be so rude or unkind. But reading things they share on social media on the subject often leave me saddened (this also falls under the “never read the comments” rule I keep forgetting to adhere to).

I cook with processed foods. I use things in jars, cans and boxes. Ingredients that are dried or frozen. Often on comments I see the ingredients I use being railed against: “I would never stoop so low as to using {blank}” and “I always {make my own, buy fresh, etc.}”.  While never directed at me personally, I still feel hurt. Rationally, I understand these statements are a matter of pride for those making them, but it still makes me feel “lesser than” for my cooking. 

I try to make relatively healthy, tasty food. It’s a task that’s only going to get harder as our baby gets older and (eventually) our family getting bigger. And I love you dearly, but friends who say “it’s really simple, you just…” do not understand — your idea of simple very rarely matches my own (bless your hearts all the same for wanting to help).

My point is this: Quick does not equal “lazy”. Simple and convenient does not equal “disgusting”. My type of cooking does not mean I’m uneducated or “lesser than”. And thus far I have not gotten a complaint on anything I make (that I myself deem a success). 

To the foodie world in general: by all means, be proud of what you’ve accomplished culinary wise, but please stop glaring down your nose at the rest of us — you are different than me, that by no means makes you better than me.

The way I am

Just over a year and a half later and I still blame myself. I still feel a pit in my stomach and occasionally feel like crying.

What happened, you may ask? It’s simple and yet incredibly complicated. I was myself. And it’s that same self which causes me to feel this way a year and half later. 

I am at my core insecure and socially awkward. I panic and worry about saying wrong thing. And despite many from outside saying I did nothing wrong, I still feel at fault. 

Over 7 months pregnant and I mishandled a delicate and emotional incident. People I thought were my friends assumed the worst of me, things I never on my worst day would have thought of them. Horrible words were hurled at me by one of them. I was told I was not a victim so don’t I dare act like it. 

True friends don’t do that. People that honestly care about you give you the benefit of the doubt. They think “that’s not like her, so it probably wasn’t meant that way.” And then they check, they ask, they don’t accuse. But no. I was a thoughtless, horrible person who should feel horrible — but we can totally still be friends as long as I had learned my lesson. And I actually agreed. At first.

Then I stepped back. I looked back over the previous months and even years and realized these people, these so called good friends had practically only ever contacted me if they needed something from me. Neither one checked in to just to say hi or see how I was doing, though I did that for them (and if I didn’t do that for them regularly, I was a bad friend). 

After days of council from people who really did care about me I came to realize I couldn’t continue with that negativity in my life. I was pregnant, about to be a mother and the stress was not good for me. So I stopped. I stopped checking in with one, and with the other I backed off and gave them the space they requested. And when I did that, the friendships ended. I felt an incredible weight lift off of me I and no idea I was carrying. 

And yet, just over a year and half later, at my weakest points, I still blame myself. I see bits of happiness I would be involved in if we were still friends and I wonder if there was something I could have or should have done to fix things.

I guess that’s just the way I am.

(artwork by Marie Esther, http://marie-esther.deviantart.com)