Cooking for One

 

It’s no secret that I’m a mediocre cook at best. Growing up, I helped Mom make cookies and watched her make meals for us, but I never really “learned how to cook.” My siblings tell me that Mom was an excellent cook, but by the time I came along, she regularly used canned vegetables, instant mashed potatoes, and other convenience foods that didn’t require a lot of effort. She once told me that although she knew how to can and make bread from scratch and all that, “I don’t have to do that anymore.” Consequently, I can make a mean chocolate chip oatmeal cookie, but without a recipe, I’m not very creative in the kitchen.

At my first wedding shower, guests were instructed to bring a favorite recipe to give to me, the blushing bride, with the idea of helping me be a successful wife. Easy taco casserole, Sara’s yummy potato salad, tuna mac and cheese--I still have some of those 3x5 cards in my recipe box, tangible reminders of the women who tried to pass their cooking skills on to the next generation. I tended to rely on the familiar, however, choosing to make the meals that I had grown up with. That made me happy, but not my husband. “What kind of a cook is she?” his mother asked him early on in our marriage. He felt obliged to share that he told her, “Not the best,” perhaps hoping to inspire me to ask his mother what his favorite meals were. It had the opposite effect.

The second time around I married into a farm family, and my mother-in-law was a no-nonsense, make-everything-from-scratch type woman. I remember trying to bond with her by asking how to make her incredible sweet rolls. “First, you take your dough,” she began, and I stopped her. “Wait--where do you get the dough?” I asked. She stared at me for a second, and then (as I remember) walked away. That Christmas, she gave me a subscription to “Taste of Home” magazine. Subtlety was not her strong suit. But I didn’t have to worry about my family starving. My husband ate what was put in front of him (thanks to his mother, no doubt), and even polished off the leftovers no one else wanted. My children didn’t know anything different, and so everyone remained well-fed as I tried to create tasty meals day in and day out. But I rarely deviated from the familiar, and only then if I had a recipe.

Cooking for a family is vastly different from cooking for one--or two-- and it was a difficult transition after my divorce. My then-fiancé did most of the cooking for us, since he loved to experiment and was very good at it, and he occasionally let me make one of my old tried-and-true meals, politely eating what I made but not asking for seconds. Feeling depressed one evening, I called my ex-husband. “Did you think I was a good cook?” I asked pathetically. He didn’t even hesitate. “As I remember you were,” he said, his voice like warm butter. “Why, doesn’t he like your cooking?” I sighed. “Not particularly,” I said. “It’s pretty unimaginative, I guess.” “He’s an idiot,” he replied, and I gave a little laugh. “Maybe so…”

These days I have only myself to cook for, and I’m still struggling with how to make a decent meal for one. If I cook, it’s usually on the weekends or days off, most evenings opting for frozen dinners or chicken breasts in the air fryer that leave me thinking, there has got to be a better way. I consider delivery services and wonder if I’d save any money by using them. I collect recipes and make shopping lists, but then I question the practicality of spending money on that one ingredient I need but will never use again or not have time during the week to use what I’ve bought. I have occasionally made my “serves a family” dishes and frozen what I didn’t immediately eat, but after plowing my way through two containers of chili, it loses its charm, and I end up shoving the remaining three to the back of the freezer behind the fish sticks.

But then there are the times I’m inspired, and with no recipe but my imagination, what I have in the fridge, and an arsenal of Penzy’s spices, and I somehow manage to create something amazing. When that happens, it gives me hope. While it’s very satisfying to cook for others, it’s also very liberating to not have to please anyone but myself. I can experiment, fail, try again, and succeed. Or not. It took some time to convince myself that I’m worth the effort, that I deserve a well-cooked meal as much as anyone. I can and should take the time to cook. To use nice dishes and enjoy a glass of wine. But also, to know that some days there’s no shame in a bowl of mac and cheese.