I hate cooking. It’s the whole organizational aspect of it–you have to have the green pepper chopped up and ready to go once the garlic has softened, you have to stir-fry it for five minutes (God help you if you skip out to pee and come back a minute late), and when you’re done you have to clean up the mess. Pass. For our first few months together my roommate thought I was a druggie because I hardly ate anything–until she discovered I think cooking takes too much work.
So why did I think it would be a good idea to subscribe to an organic farm?
Maybe because I’d only be getting one-sixth of the bounty. I’m splitting half a summer-long subscription with my roommate and her boyfriend. Maybe because I ought to eat more vegetables. That’s why I was excited that we’d be getting everything from arugula to zucchini. But also, in some abstract way, I think cooking is a good, nurturing, responsible activity, and that I should do more of it.
That didn’t happen. There’s something about being faced every week with that boombox-size box of grubby wholesomeness that turns me off of food entirely. It doesn’t matter if it comes filled with beets (which I don’t like) or tomatoes (which I love); I just don’t want to deal with it. I…kind of let the veggies sit in the fridge until they’re rotten enough to pitch. I feel guilty about this, but my roommate, who does like to cook, is even having a hard time getting rid of her share. She started throwing dinner parties just so she can fob off our unwanted food on someone else.
Plus today I tried an ear of corn and it tasted like a baked potato. I’m never doing this again.