Do You Like to Cook?
On my complicated relationship with the kitchen
‘I cook out of self defense.’
The statement took me by surprise. I frowned slightly as I took a cupcake from the proffered platter, biting into the light and airy sponge and quietly marveling at the smooth texture of the chocolate icing. It was not thick and granular, as lesser cupcakes can be. This had the feel of whipped cream and fairy bread, the delight of a childhood sprint along the pier, the mundane made brilliant. I asked him for his secret and he said baking powder, which I was sure was true and not all at the same time.
‘What do you mean?’
I had heard people say they cook out of survival, out of a need for routine, meditation, joy, but never self defense.
‘I’m a picky eater. But if you cook, you’re no longer picky.’
It turned out he didn’t like tomatoes. Suddenly, the initial assertion made a lot more sense.
My relationship with cooking has always been somewhat fraught. I too, have a relationship with cooking that is about self defense, but it operates in a different way. By and large, I refuse to cook, out of self-defense.
It will not surprise you that in Sudanese culture, a woman’s ability to cook is highly prized. My grandmothers’ skills in the kitchen were widely regarded by their communities, my maternal grandmother known for catering entire weddings on her own, that is, cooking for hundreds, sometimes thousands of hungry and judgemental Sudanese guests, presiding over the kitchen with humour, grit and a level of professional execution Carmy could only dream of.
I went to live with said grandmother in Khartoum after university, spending six months back home to ‘reconnect’, practice my Arabic and - according to every auntie I met from the airport onward - presumably find a husband.
As soon as I arrived, my grandmother announced that I was to learn how to cook.
‘But I know how to cook!’ I protested, thinking of my ability to whip up a mean fried egg, spinach and feta puff pastry square, the perfect choc-chip cookie. Home Economics, the subject at school created to teach young girls how to become ‘good wives’ was one I excelled at. I had made chocolate mousse during Ramadan that even the teacher was impressed by. I could cook!
My grandma was unconvinced. What about bamia, mullah, 3aseeda, ta3meeya and all the other dishes that make up the Sudanese diet? How was I supposed to find a husband if I couldn’t actually cook?
‘I don’t know, maybe I’ll find a husband with my personality?’ I had replied, blithe in my optimism.
My grandmother laughed.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
I shocked myself and everyone I knew when, after first meeting the man who would later become my husband, I cooked him dinner.
It was as if all the lessons drilled into me by my mother and grandmother had in fact wormed their way into my DNA. My gut instinct was to lure this man into my good graces not through a scintillating display of wit and intellectual prowess, but with 3adas1.
I came to my senses during the meal, and told him that this was false advertising, and perhaps the last meal I might ever make him, but I wanted him to know that I could in fact cook, and I was an excellent chef at that, but I have a no-kitchen policy and no man would change that.
I was quite pleased with myself.
But when I brought this incident up with a friend a few months ago, I had apparently retconned the entire affair.
‘You didn’t cook for me,’ he laughed. ‘I brought the ingredients and made dinner. You made dessert!’
I’m still not sure where my false memory came from.
I was twenty years old when I got my job on the rigs. As a field worker, I lived in camps and offshore, and for four years of my life, ate what was provided by the company. Of course, the meat was never halal and seafood was a rare treat, so I became accustomed to bland pasta and steamed vegetables. I didn’t mind it, I wasn’t fussy. Because while my grandmothers loved to cook, saw their culinary creations as an extension of their worth, my parents treated food mostly as sustenance. Breakfast was regimented, Mondays toast, Tuesdays cereal, Wednesdays yoghurt, Thursdays toast and Fridays free choice - toast, cereal or yoghurt.
I didn’t mind. What was food but nutrition, or the excuse to bring people together? It was a vehicle, not the main event. I am not a picky eater.
Moving to Perth was the first time I was entirely responsible for my diet. Between time offshore, I was a 23 year old with disposable income and new - white, middle class - friends who ate out at restaurants like it was a normal thing.
Growing up, the excursion to the fish and chip shop was the high point of the week. If my father had room in the budget we might even be treated to a serving of calamari. Once or twice a year, we might go to Sizzlers, the open buffet that meant real celebration. Restaurants as regular outings was not an option I knew existed.
I was inducted into the realm of small plates and weekend brunches and oat flat whites and triple digit bills. God bless middle class white women and their refined palates. This was a whole new world.
A few years later, I’m seeing in the new year with a group of friends and acquaintances in a half-renovated mansion on a lake in Italy. Someone in the house enjoys entertaining, and I still recall the rich smell of baked pears leaving the oven, my first taste of the fruit with mascarpone. The only time I had heard of the cheese before was in the joke.
What is the best type of cheese to hide a horse in? Mascarpone.
I had not helped with the meal preparation, though I’m sure I did some of the setting up and cleaning away. At some point in the dinner, someone asked if I knew how to cook. ‘Well, I can read.’ I replied, not quite understanding the ensuing laughter. Cooking was about following a set of instructions, like fixing an engine. The idea of framing it as a question of ability seemed odd to me. It felt like asking ‘Can you keep yourself alive?’
something about the kitchen feels like a trap
There is a more thought out essay in these vignettes that I am working my way towards, but I find myself feeling self conscious about doing so. I feel trapped by the gendered expectations around cooking, unable to conceive of time in the kitchen as a capitulation rather than a choice, joy. The irony is, as my mother often told guests, I’m quite good at it! Alhamdulilah, I have ‘the knack’ for putting ingredients together in ways that bring the best out of them, reminding my mother of her own mother’s skills, and her self-perceived lack. But despite the pleasure I derive from feeding, sustaining and entertaining myself and others through food, I cannot seem to escape the resistance within me. Something about the kitchen feels like a trap.
I had known, theoretically, that Fair Isle Studio was a self-catering residency, that there was only one shop on the isle open for a handful of hours a few days a week. I understood that fresh fruit and veg was only available when the boat was able to get in, and options would be limited. But it wasn’t until I was telling a friend about the trip that the penny dropped.
‘What are you going to eat?’
Gosh, I thought. For the first time in a very long time, I will have no-one to outsource this vital question to. There are no restaurants I can order from, no partners or housemates to share the load, no company-provided dispensations. And it wasn’t going to be for just a week or two, a period of time I could perhaps fast, or bring enough food from the mainland with me to cover. For the first time in a long time, I was going to have to reacquaint myself with the kitchen…
Once again, I surprised myself.
Isn’t it funny how we can still do that?
I’m going to pause this here, folks. There is more to this story, of course, but again I come back to my feeling of self consciousness - even shame - writing about this topic, and I’m feeling the urge to bring YOU into the conversation. What is your relationship with cooking, with the kitchen? How does your cultural background, gender, upbringing play into it? Do you feel food is mostly about sustenance, community, or something else? Why do I find this stuff so weird to talk about?!?!?!
Drop a comment, I’d love to hear your thoughts.
also like, the least impressive and most definitely least sexy of the Sudanese dishes to present!
I am very white, lower middle class, rural Australian. I thought I could cook well and prided myself on it; thought it was something that made up for (perceived) lack of other feminine or worthy qualities and would make me appealing to a partner. Then I met my now husband (who is an excellent cook also self-taught due to pickiness, like your friend) and learnt that I am mediocre at best. He's of a different ethnic, cultural and class background to me and grew up in another country, and completely changed what and how I eat. Turns out unseasoned meat cooked until it resembles leather plus potatoes and steamed veg is not what most of the rest of the world considers to be good food, and that there are much nicer things to eat! Now, he does probably 75% of the cooking and I'm much better but still not at his standard. It knocked my confidence a lot, especially because I had thought this was a strength and one of the few things that made me attractive - hard to learn that of all the things he was attracted to, my cooking was not it. (He has never been anything but supportive, diplomatic and loving - issues are my own.) I am genuinely quite good at baking and desserts though and I enjoy it and find it soothing. I also still like cooking and am very happy to do it, but with fewer illusions about my brilliance!
Love this essay so much. Feel like I’ve found a kindred spirit.
My father in law taught me how to cook, thank God. My mother said I never showed any interest in the kitchen bc I was always reading.
I married into a family that owned Indian restaurants. This was the secret to a peaceful life. When they sold the restaurants I FINALLY started to lose weight but unfortunately so did my kids so I taught myself how to make fried chicken and lasagna and now I add cheese to everything so my kids will eat great American food 😂