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silveradept[The December Days theme this year is "Things I Used To Fully Believe About Myself." Some of these things might be familiar, some of them might be things you still believe about yourself, and some of them may be painful and traumatic for you based on your own beliefs and memories. The nice thing about text is that you can step away from it at any point and I won't know.]
#14: "I can't cook."
At this point, I think the pattern is a bit more apparent: if I say some kind of sweeping statement about not being able to do something, the correct response is "What do you mean by that?" By asking that question, you can usually discover that the standards, definitions, or rules that I have created for myself about what actually counts as doing the thing are different than what you might think is a good definition.
As I have mentioned before, I was raised and socialized to be a man. We are past the era where boys are expected to take Industrial Arts and girls are expected to take Home Economics, but not past the era where all students are expected to take a life skills course so that we know how to do at least some of the skills that will be required of us, such as how to properly write a bank draft and manage a personal accounting ledger and check register.
(We even had an entire simulation about trying to survive on the salary of our chosen profession for a month. I chose educator, and I would have made it with three dollars to spare, but only because I had decided as part of the simulation that where I was working had enough good transit that I could get to work on time using public transit, and therefore the "surprise! You're far has broken down expensively" random event didn't apply. Because I treated it as a simulation, rather than a career fair (which it also kind of was), my character ended up, for financial safety, joining a reserve branch of the military for their signing bonus. Thus I learned, even though I didn't put it fully together at the time, how military recruitment draws in younglings with the promise of being able to afford life, social advancement, and putting away some amount of wealth for their descendents, and asks them to bet they will not be called to a space where they will die. (At that time, there was at least one major conflict still going on, so that possibility was much higher than it might have been in an earlier era.))
As it was, because I had parents who generally handled the cooking part, I didn't have much experience at putting things together except as special projects, and a fair amount of the things I did do were of the "empty item from packaging, stick into hot oven / microwave oven, wait the appointed time, remove, eat." Dormitory life had dining halls, and post-dormitory life mostly had more of the ready-to-eat material, because cabinet and refrigerator space is at a premium when you have six people in a house. Which left me at a point in life where I was on my own, in an apartment of my own, finally with space and time and the possibility of using what I had to my advantage, and basically no idea what to do. I still was purchasing a fair amount of ready to eat material, and sandwich assembly items for lunchtimes, and that was working, but I was also aware that there was money to be saved and variety to be gained by making meals for myself, especially when they could be taken as leftovers later on in the week.
(And because, well, I was going to have to feed myself since I didn't belong to a cult belief system that tried to insist women were completely subservient to men and should handle all the domestic things for them, and that those same women should be married and have children very early in their lives to ensure they didn't get any thoughts about independence or equality or try to negotiate with the man selected for them.)
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2dlife, (C) an accomplished cook, gave me what I needed - some starter recipes that focused on teaching me techniques that would come in handy later, instructions on how to accomplish those techniques and how to tell when things were done or ready for the next phase during that process. (Mmm, braised chicken. Mmm, quiche. Yum, sushi rolls.) Because these were practice sessions on technique, and because C was deliberately giving me things that were customizable, once I had the basic pattern down, I could do a fair amount of good food things for myself. (After all, I was the person who was giving me the feedback, so I learned how to make things I liked.) It gave me variety in my diet and I think it also helped me remember the importance of setting timers to make sure I checked on things.
This was not "cooking," however, because I was following a recipe and someone else's instructions, rather than bringing sometimes marvelous into existence from a like of ingredients on the counter. This was "cooking," because it was delicious. This wasn't "cooking," because I couldn't always get consistent results from following the directions. (Still delicious, but not always the same, if that makes sense.)
Those skills I'd learned in my apartment took a back burner while I was in my bad relationship, because my ex considered it part of her responsibilities to make the food, and I was willing to let her do it. If we'd negotiated it some other arrangement because she needed to work or similar, then they would have gotten more exercise. Post bad relationship, it took a little while to knock the rust off and to get the proper pans, but I got a recipe book or two for myself and started again. (Where I had to remember that sushi rolls only cut well if the knife is hot and sharp. But since I was making them for me, if they fell apart, I ate them and no one was the wiser.) As I added more people into my household, the duties have shifted around some, because all of the people in the house have different abilities and energy levels on different days. Which sometimes means we tag-team it, where I do some of the prep work and someone else does the staring at the pot part, or they do the prep and then I, as a person with functional knees, checks on things and stirs and pokes and transfers. Sometimes it's "this is what I want," and there's some recipe explanations, or it's a recipe that's been taught to me enough that I can do it myself and make things to someone else's taste. (I usually have to be lighter on the seasonings for others than for myself.) There's still a fair amount of "food is dumping this thing on a baking sheet, putting it in a hot oven, and waiting the appointed amount of time for it to get done." Or putting things on a plate or bowl and putting them in the microwave to make them.
To illustrate the ridiculousness of the brainweasels and the knots they'll tie to get around admitting to anything, have a couple anecdotes. First, I was going to a social in the pre-COVID era, where the party host had arranged for a friend to come by and make tacos for the attendees. This friend did not show. The supplies were there. I knew how to make taco meat, so I asked the party host if he had a pan. And a spatula. He did, so I dumped the frozen ground beef into the pan, and basically used the spatula to shave off bits of the meat as they browned and cooked, layer by layer, turning the frozen block over and over and over until it was all ready. Them I drained off some of the fat, threw in the seasonings, and stirred it until the taco meat was ready, then washed and sliced the head of lettuce into a few pieces so that people could grab some of the leaves to their preference and got out the cheese and tortillas. "Tacos up." The tacos were delicious, and nobody got sick, so I'm pretty sure I did all the potentially dangerous things correctly. I think it might have stunned some of the people who were there to find out that all was not lost because the friend with the food plan didn't show. But nobody else was going to do it, and I wanted the tacos that had been promised.
Where it really gets ridiculous, though, is that for several of the Virtual Programming years, while the libraries were closed to visitors browsing the stacks, I decided, as part of STEAM education, that since we were all doing programming in our own houses, we could learn how to bake and cook things, and so once a month or so, we all decamped to our kitchens (the kids had their grownups to help) and we followed recipes for things that would take about an hour to do, from start to out of the oven. We baked shortbread, we made scones, we made pretzels, we did pizza, and yogurt, and ice cream. Rock candy, biscuits, (lots of baked goods, because they worked with the time frame), and more. Delicious, delicious things. I also got to find out that I have some sensory aversions when it comes to working with certain kinds of doughs and batters, but I put on my food safety gloves, and we were fine, and all of those kids got to see a masc person wearing an apron, because they didn't want to get their clothes dirty. And every time I finished one of those programs and got to enjoy the delicious thing I had created, I was surprised and shocked that it went that well, because all I was doing was following the recipe. I wasn't cooking and baking, because I had a ridiculous idea on my head as to what actually counted.
It can sound silly, but sometimes, when the weasels are biting, following a recipe still doesn't show up as cooking, even when it's delicious at the end, because the weasels have kidnapped the goalposts and moved them over to somewhere that says "only things that have been created from your own mind, with the ingredients available, and without following or referring to someone else's recipe counts as cooking." (This, as I come to the realization that I prepared and cooked all of the components of the cornbread and sausage dressing for November Feast, even if the more experienced chef checked to make sure the cornbread had cooked all the way through and helped import knowledge to me about the different uses of the pans and why assume work better than others for certain techniques. So, in a very real sense, I did cook that, end to end, even as my brain protests that I was only sous chef for it.) Even though at least one of my relatives was claimed to be able to burn water, and another once got a sardonic reply from a grandmother about whether he was still listening after saying he'd heard no complaints, it turns out that so long as I know what the techniques are and what's being asked of me to do, I can produce delicious food. Recipes preferred, at least for the first few times, because that way I know what the intended result is and from there, if need be, the tinkering aspect can take over. (Or when I'm staring at a refrigerator full of leftovers, I can clear out several of the containers by going "I'll bet these all go together great, especially with a little seasoning and saucing to accompany the reheating. And cheese." No, that's not cooking, either, weren't you paying attention? That's reheating leftovers. The cooking already happened from someone else.)
Interrogate the premise. You'll discover all sorts of fun things hiding there.
#14: "I can't cook."
At this point, I think the pattern is a bit more apparent: if I say some kind of sweeping statement about not being able to do something, the correct response is "What do you mean by that?" By asking that question, you can usually discover that the standards, definitions, or rules that I have created for myself about what actually counts as doing the thing are different than what you might think is a good definition.
As I have mentioned before, I was raised and socialized to be a man. We are past the era where boys are expected to take Industrial Arts and girls are expected to take Home Economics, but not past the era where all students are expected to take a life skills course so that we know how to do at least some of the skills that will be required of us, such as how to properly write a bank draft and manage a personal accounting ledger and check register.
(We even had an entire simulation about trying to survive on the salary of our chosen profession for a month. I chose educator, and I would have made it with three dollars to spare, but only because I had decided as part of the simulation that where I was working had enough good transit that I could get to work on time using public transit, and therefore the "surprise! You're far has broken down expensively" random event didn't apply. Because I treated it as a simulation, rather than a career fair (which it also kind of was), my character ended up, for financial safety, joining a reserve branch of the military for their signing bonus. Thus I learned, even though I didn't put it fully together at the time, how military recruitment draws in younglings with the promise of being able to afford life, social advancement, and putting away some amount of wealth for their descendents, and asks them to bet they will not be called to a space where they will die. (At that time, there was at least one major conflict still going on, so that possibility was much higher than it might have been in an earlier era.))
As it was, because I had parents who generally handled the cooking part, I didn't have much experience at putting things together except as special projects, and a fair amount of the things I did do were of the "empty item from packaging, stick into hot oven / microwave oven, wait the appointed time, remove, eat." Dormitory life had dining halls, and post-dormitory life mostly had more of the ready-to-eat material, because cabinet and refrigerator space is at a premium when you have six people in a house. Which left me at a point in life where I was on my own, in an apartment of my own, finally with space and time and the possibility of using what I had to my advantage, and basically no idea what to do. I still was purchasing a fair amount of ready to eat material, and sandwich assembly items for lunchtimes, and that was working, but I was also aware that there was money to be saved and variety to be gained by making meals for myself, especially when they could be taken as leftovers later on in the week.
(And because, well, I was going to have to feed myself since I didn't belong to a cult belief system that tried to insist women were completely subservient to men and should handle all the domestic things for them, and that those same women should be married and have children very early in their lives to ensure they didn't get any thoughts about independence or equality or try to negotiate with the man selected for them.)
2dlife, (C) an accomplished cook, gave me what I needed - some starter recipes that focused on teaching me techniques that would come in handy later, instructions on how to accomplish those techniques and how to tell when things were done or ready for the next phase during that process. (Mmm, braised chicken. Mmm, quiche. Yum, sushi rolls.) Because these were practice sessions on technique, and because C was deliberately giving me things that were customizable, once I had the basic pattern down, I could do a fair amount of good food things for myself. (After all, I was the person who was giving me the feedback, so I learned how to make things I liked.) It gave me variety in my diet and I think it also helped me remember the importance of setting timers to make sure I checked on things.This was not "cooking," however, because I was following a recipe and someone else's instructions, rather than bringing sometimes marvelous into existence from a like of ingredients on the counter. This was "cooking," because it was delicious. This wasn't "cooking," because I couldn't always get consistent results from following the directions. (Still delicious, but not always the same, if that makes sense.)
Those skills I'd learned in my apartment took a back burner while I was in my bad relationship, because my ex considered it part of her responsibilities to make the food, and I was willing to let her do it. If we'd negotiated it some other arrangement because she needed to work or similar, then they would have gotten more exercise. Post bad relationship, it took a little while to knock the rust off and to get the proper pans, but I got a recipe book or two for myself and started again. (Where I had to remember that sushi rolls only cut well if the knife is hot and sharp. But since I was making them for me, if they fell apart, I ate them and no one was the wiser.) As I added more people into my household, the duties have shifted around some, because all of the people in the house have different abilities and energy levels on different days. Which sometimes means we tag-team it, where I do some of the prep work and someone else does the staring at the pot part, or they do the prep and then I, as a person with functional knees, checks on things and stirs and pokes and transfers. Sometimes it's "this is what I want," and there's some recipe explanations, or it's a recipe that's been taught to me enough that I can do it myself and make things to someone else's taste. (I usually have to be lighter on the seasonings for others than for myself.) There's still a fair amount of "food is dumping this thing on a baking sheet, putting it in a hot oven, and waiting the appointed amount of time for it to get done." Or putting things on a plate or bowl and putting them in the microwave to make them.
To illustrate the ridiculousness of the brainweasels and the knots they'll tie to get around admitting to anything, have a couple anecdotes. First, I was going to a social in the pre-COVID era, where the party host had arranged for a friend to come by and make tacos for the attendees. This friend did not show. The supplies were there. I knew how to make taco meat, so I asked the party host if he had a pan. And a spatula. He did, so I dumped the frozen ground beef into the pan, and basically used the spatula to shave off bits of the meat as they browned and cooked, layer by layer, turning the frozen block over and over and over until it was all ready. Them I drained off some of the fat, threw in the seasonings, and stirred it until the taco meat was ready, then washed and sliced the head of lettuce into a few pieces so that people could grab some of the leaves to their preference and got out the cheese and tortillas. "Tacos up." The tacos were delicious, and nobody got sick, so I'm pretty sure I did all the potentially dangerous things correctly. I think it might have stunned some of the people who were there to find out that all was not lost because the friend with the food plan didn't show. But nobody else was going to do it, and I wanted the tacos that had been promised.
Where it really gets ridiculous, though, is that for several of the Virtual Programming years, while the libraries were closed to visitors browsing the stacks, I decided, as part of STEAM education, that since we were all doing programming in our own houses, we could learn how to bake and cook things, and so once a month or so, we all decamped to our kitchens (the kids had their grownups to help) and we followed recipes for things that would take about an hour to do, from start to out of the oven. We baked shortbread, we made scones, we made pretzels, we did pizza, and yogurt, and ice cream. Rock candy, biscuits, (lots of baked goods, because they worked with the time frame), and more. Delicious, delicious things. I also got to find out that I have some sensory aversions when it comes to working with certain kinds of doughs and batters, but I put on my food safety gloves, and we were fine, and all of those kids got to see a masc person wearing an apron, because they didn't want to get their clothes dirty. And every time I finished one of those programs and got to enjoy the delicious thing I had created, I was surprised and shocked that it went that well, because all I was doing was following the recipe. I wasn't cooking and baking, because I had a ridiculous idea on my head as to what actually counted.
It can sound silly, but sometimes, when the weasels are biting, following a recipe still doesn't show up as cooking, even when it's delicious at the end, because the weasels have kidnapped the goalposts and moved them over to somewhere that says "only things that have been created from your own mind, with the ingredients available, and without following or referring to someone else's recipe counts as cooking." (This, as I come to the realization that I prepared and cooked all of the components of the cornbread and sausage dressing for November Feast, even if the more experienced chef checked to make sure the cornbread had cooked all the way through and helped import knowledge to me about the different uses of the pans and why assume work better than others for certain techniques. So, in a very real sense, I did cook that, end to end, even as my brain protests that I was only sous chef for it.) Even though at least one of my relatives was claimed to be able to burn water, and another once got a sardonic reply from a grandmother about whether he was still listening after saying he'd heard no complaints, it turns out that so long as I know what the techniques are and what's being asked of me to do, I can produce delicious food. Recipes preferred, at least for the first few times, because that way I know what the intended result is and from there, if need be, the tinkering aspect can take over. (Or when I'm staring at a refrigerator full of leftovers, I can clear out several of the containers by going "I'll bet these all go together great, especially with a little seasoning and saucing to accompany the reheating. And cheese." No, that's not cooking, either, weren't you paying attention? That's reheating leftovers. The cooking already happened from someone else.)
Interrogate the premise. You'll discover all sorts of fun things hiding there.
