I Like To Cook… As Infrequently As Possible

I do the cooking for my family. No surprises there; it’s in the stay-at-home parent job description. Like many dads, I am overly praised for this (sorry moms), just like I’m overly praised when I strap my son in a baby carrier on my chest, when I change a diaper, or when I admit that I’m a stay-at-home dad (SAHD). I don’t deserve the praise any more than moms do. But it feels good, so I usually smile and accept (sorry again moms, I’m working on that). Beneath the kind words lie assumptions. Some are true. For instance, that doing these things must mean that I’m a great dad (lol). Some are false. Like since I cook for my family, I must be especially good at it. Or I must like it.

I can cook, and I’m decent at it. But that’s not why I do it. Beast Wife can cook too, and she’s better. I like to cook… I think. But that’s not why I do it either. I wish it were a hobby, considering how much time I put into planning, prepping, and cooking meals each day. But most days, it sure doesn’t feel like a hobby. Cooking with kids around, like everything else when they’re in the picture, is complicated.

Do I like to cook? Man, I don’t know anymore.

A Fragile Process

I’ve come a long way in my culinary journey. In college, I packed every inch of my freezer with 10 for $10, on-sale, TV dinners. As a senior, I graduated to chicken breasts on the George Foreman grill, white rice, frozen vegetables, and store-bought BBQ sauce. Maybe a fried egg every once in awhile. Once I left college and became a man, I ate a lot of Panda Express. Horrified, Beast Wife (Beast Girlfriend at the time) dragged me to Target to buy a Santoku knife and a cutting board. After a trip to a foreign land known as “The Produce Section” at the grocery store, and after a quick lesson about how not to chop off my finger while slicing an onion, I could cook. A little. From scratch. With vegetables. I was proud. Over time, I improved. I followed easy recipes in Men’s Health magazine. I learned the difference between “chop,” “mince,” and “slice.” I cooked successful meals. I started to cook successful, tasty meals. I even said goodbye to my heavily “seasoned” George Foreman grill. Eventually, I was asking for cookbooks for Christmas. It was fun. It felt like a hobby. I liked to cook.

When I cook, in the way that I like it, I have a Process. Here’s how it goes:

1. Locate recipe(s)– there’s always a recipe
2. Secure all ingredients necessary
3. Plan sequence of events
4. Drink beer– there’s usually a beer
5. Prepare ingredients (wash, chop, slice, measure)
6. Cook
7. Clean-as-you-go
8. Serve and enjoy
9. Receive and humbly accept unnecessary praise (there’s usually praise)

I am a slow and deliberate cook. If I’m looking at a recipe that says “Prep Time: 20 minutes. Cooking Time: 10 minutes,” I laugh and tell Beast Wife, “Dinner will be ready in an hour.” She laughs louder and eats a snack. We both know it’ll be two hours, at least. Cooking takes a long time, especially if you’re me. And despite my years of skills and experience, that’s the one thing that hasn’t changed. Still, the time spent doesn’t really affect my enjoyment of The Process. When I cooked those early-days, Men’s Health magazine dinners, it didn’t matter if we ate at 9:30pm. I was learning new skills, listening to some country music, drinking beer. Life was good. Now, life is still good. But it’s different, and a little more complicated. Bedtime for the boys is at 8. To make that bedtime happen (and don’t ask me why, I still can’t figure out where the time goes), dinner MUST be at 5:30pm. It’s a serious constraint on The Process. But as a SAHD, I rise to the challenge. And sometimes, I even enjoy it.

For example, two Sundays ago I executed The Process with ringing success for the Super Bowl. It took all day. And it was fantastic. On the menu:

Per The Process, ingredients were measured and sorted, waiting in neat glass bowls. I staged my large, luxurious cutting board on the edge of the kitchen counter, in perfect view of the Super Bowl pregame show. The stand-up mixer had emerged from its furtive home deep within our cabinets, and it was locked and loaded with flour, butter and salt. My midday beer was cracked open and poured into a waiting glass. I took a sip. I was stoked.

The most critical factor, though, did not have a line item in The Process. That Sunday, I was free. Like those pre-kids cooking days all over again, I had one job: cook the dinner, no matter how long it takes (well, as long as you’re done by 5:30). It was Sunday morning. Beast Wife took the boys. Earlier in the week, I chose the menu and secured the ingredients. After breakfast, I planned my day. I played with the boys a little (Dad shouldn’t be totally absent on Super Bowl Sunday). I sipped hoppy, small town American goodness. I watched Rob Gronkowski, King of Aging Bros, score two touchdowns. I breathed in the aroma of roasting meat for hours. And I executed The Process. It was awesome.

“Man, I really like cooking,” I thought. I gazed at my happy family, re-enacting Cars 3 in the living room. A special meal was on-schedule. A Mayberry IPA was in my mouth. A shit-eating grin was on my face.

The Process Breaks Down

Not long after the Super Bowl, it was Tuesday. A Typical Night. On Typical Nights, I feed my family too. But, unfortunately, feeding my family is not my only job on a Typical Night. For instance, I typically don’t have all day. I’m not free from the kids. I don’t have as many IPA’s at my disposal (typically). On those nights, however, I adjust. I lower my culinary targets and my family’s expectations. I leverage the leftovers.

On the menu for the Typical Tuesday after the Super Bowl: leftover ribs, leftover biscuits, and a TBD green vegetable. Let’s make this easy. Cook one thing (the TBD green vegetable). Anyone can cook one thing.

It was 4:50pm. 40 minutes. I had 40 minutes to heat up some leftovers and cook one thing. I felt confident. Even cocky. I’m a seasoned cook. I’ve been a SAHD for awhile, so I’ve been here before. I knew my limitations. With one eye on my 1-year-old, stumbling dangerously close to the 3-foot danger zone around his tiring, 3-year-old brother, I pulled up my go-to, fastest, cleanest, most bad-ass green vegetable recipe: garlicky kale. 5 ingredients. 5 minutes of prep time. 5 minutes of cooking time. Even with a 3X time multiplier, I’d still be done early. Cue The Process.

1. Locate recipe(s)– COMPLETE
2. Secure all ingredients necessary– COMPLETE
3. Plan sequence of events– IN PROGRESS

Oh that’s right: these kids….

To increase my odds of finishing on-time, Beast Wife offered to take 3-year-old R on a quick spin around the block on his bike to save him from the screen time holding cell I had in mind for him. That left the half-crawling/half-walking baby to deal with. No problem. I had 40 minutes to cook a 10 (errr 30) minute dish and heat up some leftovers. I could handle a mellow little baby in parallel.

3. Plan sequence of events– COMPLETE (wash kale, peel garlic, slice garlic, chop kale, cook, serve, accept praise)- monitor baby for safety throughout
4. Drink beer (I’ll skip it tonight. Too much going on. Plus, it’s Tuesday… I guess).
5. Prepare ingredients– IN PROGRESS

After 45 minutes in step 5, I regretted skipping step 4.

That tiny baby, not as mellow as I had hoped, had an outsized impact on My Process. Like an army of the undead, he just kept advancing, undeterred, in an all-out assault on the most dangerous situations he could find in the house.

Wash one leaf of kale. Crap, where’d he go??? Ah yes… bookshelves.

Cut a single slice of garlic. Well, he’s grabbing at my leg. I should probably holster this huge knife.

Check the time. 5:30 already?! Crap. Uh… what’s in his mouth?

I lost count of how many baby deadlifts I did, but it was at least 50. After every pass of the knife, I sprinted through the house looking for him. My neck was sore from all the head swivels. My fingers barely survived near misses with the huge knife. The baby was pissed. And so was I. Then I felt guilty. He’s just a baby who wants to be held by his dad. It’s not his fault that you suck at cooking. Pick him up, dude. Where the hell is Beast Wife?? How could she leave me like this??? That all-too-familiar feeling of impostorhood washed over me. I’m not cut out for this. Any Mom can get one thing cooked and on the table with a baby in tow. Why is a Typical Night so hard?

Man, I hate cooking. Where’s my Panda Express?

70 minutes later, we ate.

A Reckoning

Whenever I read an article about someone who likes to cook, they sound nothing like me. They experiment. They float through the farmer’s market, exploring new and exciting ingredients. They can imagine meals coming together on the fly. If it’s not right, taste it. Throw in a little of this or a little of that. It’s fun!

No, it’s not! That sounds terrible! When I cook, I already need 3-7X the prescribed time to get the work done. What does “a little of this or that” actually mean? The clock is ticking toward 5:30, and I can’t deal with that kind of uncertainty under pressure. I need time. Lots of it. And a babysitter. I need a recipe. I need clarity and certainty. I need The Process. At the end of a Typical Day, I don’t have the mental capacity for creativity in the kitchen. I guess it’s true: I don’t like to cook.

So why do I cook at all? Shouldn’t I just outsource it? Buy one of those meal prep services or order takeout a little more often? Panda Express never killed anybody (did it)? Maybe the modern stay-at-home parent doesn’t cook. The next time someone asks me “Do you cook,” I can just say, “No.” And they won’t be surprised. I’m a guy (sorry moms). I’ll miss having control over my family’s diet. I’ll miss the satisfaction of completing The Process. I’ll miss the sense of accomplishment, of being a guy that cooks. But are any of those things worth the Typical Day mealtime scramble? Man, I don’t know.

Ok, I’ll Try Again

Friday night came along, and we were all out of leftovers. I had foolishly thawed some chicken in the refrigerator the past two nights. So the decision was made for me: I had to cook that chicken. On a Typical Night. Oh boy.

1. Locate recipe(s)
2. Secure all necessary ingredients

On the menu: paleo Orange Chicken (I sure miss Panda Express). Vegetables in our fridge were starting to look questionable, so I plugged their names into a single Google search: “cabbage bell pepper carrot Asian recipe”). I picked this one. With R in school, I put K down for his afternoon nap. And I got to work.

Prep Time: 30 minutes (Actual Bro Dad Prep Time: 120 minutes).

Ouch. It was not looking good. I sacrificed all of afternoon nap time to chop, slice, and dodge raw chicken residue. No exercise, no showering (ew), and no nap for me, just three of the ten things I had in mind for that precious naptime. I finished prepping, but it was costly.

I returned from R’s preschool pick-up at 5:15. Time to cook. No chance at 5:30, but could I make it by 6? Just then, Beast Wife emerged from the office. She offered to take the boys (both boys this time). I cracked open a beer (not making that mistake again). And suddenly, I was free again. Now it was time to cook. On my own terms.

Cook time: 20 minutes (Actual Bro Dad Cook Time: 45 minutes)

I’m not winning any cooking races here. But we ate at 6. Right on schedule.

So Do I Like It or Not?

As psychologist Barry Schwartz said in one of my favorite TED talks, “The key to happiness is low expectations.” As a stay-at-home parent, I find this to be true on so many levels. It works for cooking too. I want to like it. So I’ve started to set my expectations lower. Here are some of my happy cooking keys:

1. Cook as infrequently as possible— I shoot for two dinners a week, and double whatever recipe I can. I stretch those leftovers like I’m rationing in a global pandemic.
2. Get takeout once a week, and order extra— If you’re splurging for takeout, might as well get an extra dish or two. It’s only once a week….
3. Prep dinner during kids’ naptimes, but no more than twice a week— If I used the freedom of naptime to prep meals every day, I might lose my mind. Two compromised naptimes seems right.
4. Drink beer when you cook— Beer is great.
5. Don’t try to watch the kids at the same time— I give up trying to do that. It’s miserable (and a little dangerous). I can’t wait for the day when my 1-year-old can zonk out in front of the TV like his brother while I cook. In the meantime, I’ll get help from Beast Wife on the few nights I cook.

Reading through my list, I sure don’t sound like someone who likes to cook. If I liked it, I’d want to do it more often, not less, right? I may like The Process of cooking, the successful completion of the challenge to feed my family by the work of my hands, more than the traditional act of cooking. Man, I don’t know. Either way, I’m cooking. I’ll try to do it my ideal, happy way as much as possible. I’ll avoid excessive takeout. And if I sense someone making false assumptions about my love of cooking… I probably won’t say anything. It’s complicated.

After the Super Bowl feast, Beast Wife tucked R into bed. She walked through his bedtime routine, piling his favorite blankets on top of him, one by one, by name. He said his nightly prayers. She kissed him goodnight, and walked out to me, grinning.

“Do you know what R prayed for tonight?”

“Mmh?”

“He said ‘Thank you God for Daddy who makes me such yummy food.”

Man, never mind all that. I love cooking.