I Can't Keep Cooking Like This

I have hit the wall of pandemic productivity. And I'd like to stay here.

King Arthur Flour’s guide to homemade “Rustic Sourdough Bread.”

I’m sorry to say that cooking is no longer fun. 

At first, quarantine seemed like a great time to finally become an at-home chef. Confined to my apartment, I had ambitious plans to reinvent and rediscover domesticity. Just like every other millennial, I cracked open my Alison Roman cookbook and dog-eared the pages of recipes I’d attempt. I organized my shopping lists and braved the grocery store, cramming two weeks’ of supplies into one small basket. I made her shallot paste, her lemon cake, and her focaccia. I posted all of it to Instagram with self-effacing captions like, “I did a thing.” My friends and I traded recipes over text and, at their urging, I made my own pizza and stored homemade cookie dough. “What’s for dinner tonight?” the group chat would ask and, one by one, we’d send photos of our creations. Two of us sent progress photos of the scallions they were re-growing on their windowsills. Meanwhile, mine were rotting in my refrigerator.

I’m ashamed to admit that I no longer take any joy from cooking at all. When I did confess recently on Twitter, someone suggested I buy a Le Creuset Dutch Oven to conquer my woes. Little did he know: I have a Le Creuset Dutch Oven (as well as a sauce pot, a frying pan, and multiple baking dishes), and I am tired of all of them, too. What’s more, I have no idea why I bought $30 truffle salt or bulk ordered Brussels sprouts from a local farm. And contrary to what everyone said about how gratifying it is to make your own bread dough, it’s not! If I wanted to spend hours massaging something white and fleshy, I could have a lot more fun doing so in my bedroom. 

I worry that I’m the only one who feels this way. Lately, everyone is talking about cooking, and quite a few of them are infinitely more talented chefs than I could ever be. Somehow, the people I follow on social media have not just learned how to cook during quarantine—they’ve also figured out how to beautifully plate and photograph their food, so that everything they make looks like the cover of Bon Appétit. My meals, by comparison, look like one of the misguided-but-good-natured attempts on Nailed It! There is, thankfully, a lesson here: I have a newfound sympathy for the parents of ugly newborns. 

Before these End Times, I garnered a real sense of accomplishment from cooking. Making a meal felt like I was earning some sort of “adulting” extra credit. People were impressed, and I even impressed myself. Now, all of you are making “sourdough starter kits” and a multitude of broths and even handmade pastas. When I go to cook lately, I can hear Ina Garten’s condescending slogan: “Store-bought is fine.” Fine. If you’re a plebian. This phrase echoed in my head as I grabbed a tube of Pillsbury’s ready-to-bake cinnamon rolls at the grocery store. I put them back and Googled a recipe from scratch instead. I bought the appropriate ingredients, each of which are still sitting, untouched and maybe expiring, in my refrigerator.

Meanwhile, my friend Alison Roman was recently dubbed “the reluctant prom queen of the pandemic.” If that is true (and indeed, it is), I figured I must be her court jester. I texted her early one morning and told her that my heart could no longer go on. I admired her stamina to cook and bake and be impossibly charming, but I could no longer follow her example. I was ready to succumb to laziness and the greasy salvation of the Domino’s delivery app. “Babe,” she responded. “I am DONE with cooking right now.” 

I felt the clouds part. Even our domestic goddess, our patron saint of pandemic wisdom, our advocate of anchovies on everything, gets tired of cooking? Vindication, at last! I felt seen. I smiled at my phone, feeling the guilt lift off of my shoulders. I was liberated of my shame. 

“Cooking is like working out,” Alison told me. “When it feels great, it’s great. When you don’t wanna, just don’t!” Just like exercise, I repeated in my head. That made sense! 

But wait: Suddenly, I realized I hadn’t done my at-home workouts in three consecutive days. My yoga mat was collecting dust in the corner; the resistance bands I bought at the beginning of the pandemic lay limp on my living room floor. My monthly subscription to Peloton was surely going to waste. I opened Instagram to see a “fitness influencer” with six-pack abs doing squats in very small gym shorts. “No excuses!” he cheered through a Colgate smile. “Stay motivated!”

I put down my phone and closed my eyes with a heavy sigh. Just like that, the guilt was back.