Cooking, to me, is not so much a painful chore as it is an obstacle in the way of eating. I see the appeal; just this the other day I was cutting potatoes and making coffee with my laptop on the counter streaming Real Madrid vs. Sevilla and it was just nice. A lovely Saturday. Knife in hand, making an earnest attempt to slice perfectly trapazoidal fry wedges, I saw flashes of a future me: a continentally refined, skillet flipping, spice rack owning me whose dinner table is the stuff of legend, a frequent host to friends, dignitaries, cultural icons and Jeff Goldblum, who is all three. I accepted this vision into my heart and embraced it as my one true future.
But then I realized that ovens are like elephant wombs that take 22 months to birth a fully baked potato. Fuck you, ovens! You’re nothing more than insanely over-sized digital clocks. If I have to wait an hour for food than I might as well not have anything, because by then it’s cutting into my next meal. Like the Little Engine That Couldn’t and Backed Up all the Damn Trains for All the Damn Day Because He Was Outdated and Slow. Ovens, man. The worst.
This is why Sonic beats a home-cooked meal. This is why my cooking repertoire consists mainly of spaghetti, eggs, and [now] microwaved potatoes. This is also why I spent the agonizing wait for my ramen water to boil this evening forking hearty bites of peanut butter into my impatient, slobbering mouth. It’s not that hate cooking. I hate not eating.