My friend Mike recently reminded me to stop being so damn lazy.
I used to take great pride in cooking. Every weekend, I’d plan a couple of big meals and make a grocery list. I loved making a big pot of soup on Sundays. I would usually freeze half of it and eat the rest for lunch or dinner during the week. I’d do the same with whatever meal I decided to make. A nice baked pasta or enchiladas could be divided into glass containers that could easily go from freezer to microwave. That way on busy nights, I had healthy homemade dinners with ingredients I controlled that were as convenient as microwave dinners.
Since moving to New York, however, my cooking became rare. I moved into my apartment in February. My oven has been turned on exactly four times. I couldn’t even remember how to turn it on when I wanted to use it yesterday (it’s gas and a little tricky to light. Not because I’m an idiot).
“But my bread, the one I spend the better part of a day kneading and proofing, is stale before I can eat about half of it. Wonder Bread, with 27 ingredients, half a teaspoon of sugar and 7 percent of your daily allowance of salt in every slice, lasts on the shelf for two weeks.”
Once we’re past smoothie and salad season and square in soup and casserole season, I vow to use my oven more often. I vow to try my hand at Mike’s marinara recipe. I want my food to rot. Because if bacteria doesn’t want to eat my dinner, why should I?
I’m a journalist, content strategist, doting auntie, amateur bobsledder, fitness enthusiast, and wannabe health nut (who loves chocolate and pizza too much to fully commit). I don't want you to think my life is perfect. It's not.