Wednesday, December 17, 2008
It's getting to that point in my life when I'm really starting to notice my stunted, childlike habits. This is mostly because I've realized how many of my friends have grown-up apartments and grown-up cooking skills, and how much time I spend marveling at both.
I'm bad at these things. I live in an elderly woman's wood-paneled basement with nothing on the walls. Every mismatched piece of furniture I own came free from the side of a road somewhere, except for my couch, table lamp, and bed, which were free from other sources. I don't have a dresser. I like the idea of cooking, but am riddled with anxiety about it enough to not actually attempt much of anything. I cook pasta and canned sauce or pierogies when I'm feeling adventurous. The other day I had a mini-crisis in the supermarket when I had to convince myself not to buy frozen burritos. Granted, my eating habits have steadily improved over the years, but still. These are not "grown-up" things.
And then I think about my grandma, whose apartment was a complete disaster zone and whose culinary pinnacle was making chrusciki (a very simple polish pastry) maybe once a year. Everything else she ate came in the form of a Schwan's frozen dinner that "the Schwan's man" would deliver to her doorstep in bulk every couple weeks. I suppose everything evens out somehow, and I love you grandma, but this is not what I want for myself.
In closing, I will maybe try harder. Though it doesn't help that I share a kitchen with two women who have far superior cooking skills and who, whenever i enter the kitchen, call me "Sandwich Queen" or not-so-cleverly quip, "well, I'm glad someone is using the toaster oven."
posted by anne on 12/17/2008