Potlucks fill me with dread. A cookie swap gives me major anxiety. I love to cook for myself but am terrified of cooking for others. As for baking, no way. My expectation is I’ll do more burning than baking.
I’m always satisfied with my snacks and meals, but I assume no one else will be. Whatever I prepare will be messy or boring or dropped on the way to the car. In short, I’m scared I’ll embarrass myself.
Every time I look at a recipe it includes some herb I don’t have. My tiny apartment has little counter space to cook or cabinet space for staples. I’ve had a recurring dream in which I find an extra room in my apartment. In my waking dreams that room has space for a spice rack.
I made more from scratch when I was in college and just after. When I was able to take my time and chop neatly, I thought “this is what leisure looks like”. Leisure is time to chop parsley.
Little counter space, few spices, little time – no wonder I’m insecure about my cooking.
Life won’t always be like this. when life is more stable I’ll settle into a bigger kitchen and I’ll put my chives somewhere they can’t be stolen and I’ll take the time to make food that satisfies both my appetite and my pride. I’ll take better care of myself and surround myself with the beauty I deserve.
So it’s not that I can’t cook. It’s just that I’m not ready yet.