From a Black Woman Who Can’t Cook
The first step is acknowledging takeout is an option.
Hi. My name is Janell Marie and I’m a black woman who can’t cook. Now before you sound the alarm, please hear me out.
Growing up, I didn’t wake up to the smells of food in the kitchen. There were no homemade biscuits, no secret recipes, no cast irons passed down from generation to generation. We were a fast food-toaster oven-microwave kind of family.
My mom worked midnights at the post office so my siblings and I often had to fend for ourselves when we were young. We ate spaghetti like it was our religion. Hot dogs and cold cuts were in heavy rotation, and grilled cheese felt fancy because we used Cracker Barrel instead of American. When we went to the grocery store, we maintained a balance between sugary snacks and “healthy” pre-packaged foods, but raw ingredients rarely made their way into our basket. The only dishes I remember my mom cooking are baked mac-n-cheese and chicken pot pie, both of which were reserved for special occasions.
This non-cooking foundation has ventured over into my adult life, especially during the pandemic. This is not to say that I never had home-cooked meals growing up. Although they were a rarity at home, any visit to my Granny’s resulted in to-go plates filled with her labor of love. Cooking seemed easy enough when she did it. I watched her move rhythmically from stove top to countertop whipping and chopping and tasting and seasoning. Most times this was a solo performance, but sometimes she’d let me help with preparations. I’d be instructed to measure out three spoons of this and a little bit of that. I’d be tasked to turn down the fire or watch over the bread in the oven. I was rewarded with taste tests and quality time. Unfortunately, her skills did not transfer through osmosis.
For years, I told myself that I loved to cook. I even told myself that I could cook. But let the record show cooking well did not work out for me.
There were a few times when I tried to mimic Granny’s kitchen swag. There was that time in seventh grade I attempted French toast and forgot to grease the skillet between batches. Once, in tenth grade, I tried to cook a chicken breast on the stove which confirmed to the whole house that our fire alarm definitely worked. One Easter, I undercooked an entire chicken. It came out of the oven golden and glistening, but the insides were filled with blood. If I haven’t made myself clear, the cooking struggle is real.
This is a sad realization for me, a black woman, especially because my community takes pride in throwing down in the kitchen. We’ve always made due with what we’ve had and made it look easy. But don’t be caught slipping. You’ll never live it down if there was not enough flavor or too much salt or, eh hmm, you burned the French toast.
For years, I told myself that I loved to cook. I even told myself that I could cook. But let the record show cooking well did not work out for me. In reality, cooking is more of a nostalgic activity for me anyway. I don’t like standing on my feet for hours. I throw a tantrum when food doesn’t come out right. And my patience is too thin for trial and error when I’m hungry.
I know now that cooking is a learned skill that takes practice to get right and that I should probably start before the hunger pangs, but that doesn’t soften the blow when you spend hours in the kitchen only to ruin dinner. It’s one of the top worst feelings for me.
So, I’ve now resolved to being a non-cook. I have a few meals I’ve mastered enough, but since I’m still cooking for a party of one, I don’t mind as much footing the bill to eat out. I look forward to a partner who can burn in the best way. Until then, I’ll bring the wine or the dessert. I’ll help pack up the food and clean the kitchen. But I will not pretend to know how to cook.
