There was a time in my life when I loved to cook. I loved learning about exciting new spices and recipes and trying them out in my tiny kitchen, in my 400 square foot apartment. I collected recipes from everywhere — boxes, books, packages I read quickly in grocery stores, asking people.

Those days are long gone.

During this pandemic, I have had to cook basically eight meals per day, every day. I have celiac disease, my husband is a vegetarian, and my daughter is seven. So there are very few meals that make all of us happy, and I’m so sick of those few meals the thought of them nauseates me. So I wind up cooking three different meals every time I cook, and it’s the worst.

Additionally, I used to think I was a very good cook. Now, I know that I am the only one who likes my cooking. There are only so many potlucks you can attend where your dish is the only one untouched at the end of the evening, before you realize maybe the problem isn’t everyone else. It’s not a problem I can remedy, because to me, my cooking is perfection. But you will hate it.

There are a lot of people who say they like to cook for others. They show their love through lovingly crafting cookies and roasts and shit. Yeah. That’s not me at all. I am a selfish cook. I don’t want to cook for you, I want to cook for me, and eat it all myself. In fact, if I make something that’s especially tasty, I get cranky when my family eats too much of it. Like, that’s for me, fuckers. I cooked it, not you. You should be grateful I let you have as much as I did.

Also, why does my family need to eat so much? I’m perfectly content to eat one large lunch per day, and maybe a small snack in the evening if lunch wasn’t obscenely large enough. But my family likes to graze all day, like cattle, creating massive quantities of dirty dishes in their quest to never be even slightly peckish.

I can’t wait until the pandemic is over, and I can go back to cooking a half-assed breakfast for my daughter, and one nice dinner for the family per day, like a normal person.