A Kitchen in Disarray

On cooking and mess

I currently have a chicken pasta bake going in my oven in which I have very little faith that it’s going to turn out well. The recipe was meatless and I wanted to add chicken and suddenly I was adding a little more of everything and probably too little of others. Also, I’m realizing I'm not truly sure what al dente means.

Kind of wild how much of cooking is just blind faith in a lot of work turning into something. Or maybe that’s just me.

I don’t really cook. My husband enjoys it much more so he’s easily taken on that role. He spent a lot of time learning from his mom in the kitchen. It’s cute to see him so excited about trying something new. I’m always on dish duty.

When I used to bartend in college, two of my coworkers jokingly called me “The Terror.” Because when I worked, the counters looked like Hurricane Macey had blown through, simple syrup and cheap liquor and jiggers strewn about in my wake.

I haven’t thought about that nickname in years until tonight, when I turned toward my food processor and saw chicken broth seeping out the bottom. From where, I still don’t know. I blended it with cottage cheese, the recipe’s protein source, which I realized I didn’t get creamy enough as I dumped it into the pan to avoid losing more broth. A piece of raw chicken landed on the counter next to the cutting board. I just checked the pasta with a fork and now I know what al dente isn’t. Fifteen more minutes — actually, 20, since I stood there with the over door open for five minutes trying to predict if I could save this impending doom. It’s getting late.

I am constantly clarifying to folks that I can cook (even though it sounds like I can’t), it’s just that I prefer not to. Because why would I want to willingly enter this state of chaos and constantly falling short? It’s not for lack of trying. My mom is a wonderful cook. The only interest I had in the kitchen was to lick the mixer when she was done making her famous chocolate chip cookies. She once taught me how to make stuffed shells and now I remember nothing about it. I tried to teach myself to cook the year after I graduated college. I Googled “Healthy dinner recipes” and made quite the run on that list for a few months. But I eventually lost interest.

My mom and my husband can both start pouring and mixing and be on their way to something hearty and right. I reread a recipe ten times before I even leave to go to the store. It’s like somewhere I missed the gene where fractions and flavors and finality all make sense. The gene that, as a child, seemed like it’s supposed to belong to girls.

But it’s much less about the gendered expectations of a woman in a heterosexual relationship. Those have never meant anything to me, and quite frankly, my innate obstinance toward people telling me what I have to do has shielded me from falling prey in that regard. There is, however, a gendered projection of cleanliness and order for women that feels impossible to me. I am not organized. I should vacuum more. My home looks nothing like Instagram. I need to follow a plan and even then, things seem to spin out of control. My counters are a mess after I cook.

My sister doesn’t cook, either. Her husband is the cook in their home. He makes really great cheesy potatoes and when I briefly stayed with them while starting a new job, he meal-prepped for all of us. I wonder if my sister feels the same sense of disarray when she tries to cook, too.

I’m cooking alone tonight because my husband is out of town and the only person to contend with my mess, both culinarily and utensilly, is myself. I don’t have to explain my disorder to anyone else. If he was here, he’d be asking too many questions, stirring without permission. My mistakes are mine now. I won’t learn with an audience. I bristle at external suggestions. There’s that obstinate girl again. Maybe she’ll help me find balance.

Editor’s note: I’m publishing this two days after I made this recipe and wrote this essay. The food turned out fine. I should have added more cottage cheese when I added more of almost everything else, so the texture wasn’t right. I was hoping to write a note extolling my new cooking prowess but, I suppose I should have known better.

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