I like to cook. I’m happy to admit it. In law school I would pass the time in Fed Courts or Trusts & Estates looking up articles in “Food & Wine” and “Cooking Light,” in between reading juicy personal emails over other peoples’ shoulders or watching the online Paris Hilton sex video. Since moving to the city, I’ve found that cooking has lost its appeal to most women; it’s become almost taboo, a symbol of surrender to the Barefoot & Pregnant School of Feminist Theory. Mention you spent a Sunday trying a new recipe and women will glance up from their Blackberries to shoot you withered looks and drop comments like “Recipes? Aren’t you cute. I haven’t turned on my stove in a year,” or “it must be nice to have so much time on your hands,” as if preparing essential nutrition to fuel the human body is an example of pure frivolity. Women who do cook like to believe they’re the only ones still possessing the skill; it feeds their self-image as vital maternal saviors in a world tumbling into pre-packaged microwaved chaos. As proof of this phenomenon, I give you Exhibit A, an exchange with a female acquaintance who has spent decades honing the art of undermining to scalpel sharpness:
Me: “Yeah, since I’ve stopped working as a lawyer I try to make dinner a couple times a week. It’s definitely more fun to cook for the two of us than just for myself.”
Her: (With an incredulous look) “You cook?? That’s a riot.”
Me: “I’m not quite clear on what you mean by that.”
Her: “You just aren’t really the type, is all.”
Upon which I broke a bottle over her head and motioned to my lurking thugs to toss her out of the restaurant like a sack of laundry. Not really, but the insinuation that only a certain “type” of woman cooks food for herself and others is beyond ridiculous. So ultimately, women can’t win - ignore all food preparation and face sanctimonious looks from self-proclaimed domestic goddesses trumpeting how they’d never let their families touch anything not organic and prepared by their own hands, or admit you cook and swallow the resulting derision for spending your life hovered over a hot stove.
Liberation from all this B.S. was part of what fueled my decision to cook a 3-course dinner for seven people on Easter. Call it a Stalinist purge of culinary mental baggage. Just to cement the nervous breakdown, I chose a difficult menu and made sure the guest list contained five members of Boyfriend’s family, two of which are experienced cooks, plus one Kosher observer and two semi-vegetarians. After more than six hours of food preparation and handfuls of Prozac, it all came off swimmingly. But I did learn one vital thing: the idea that domesticism isn’t actual work is just as ridiculous as the notion that it should be reserved exclusively for women. Translation: Next year, Boyfriend is doing the cooking.