The pandemic has given me infinite gratitude for life’s simple pleasures. So if you need a snack, get it yourself.
According to a recent survey, seven in 10 consumers say they’ll keep cooking at home post-pandemic. Apparently, those cooking at home are loving it! They are more creative and are more confident than I am. It helps save money and often makes eating healthier.
I don’t know who those seven out of 10 people are. I am unequivocally one of the three out of 10. I am running on fumes from my fourth cup of instant coffee, feeling bloated–and feeding four human beings at home who often eat because they’re bored doesn’t seem like it’s helping me save any money.
I am sick and tired of dicing and slicing and sauteing. Mixing and simmering and grilling. Scrubbing and rinsing. Loading and unloading the dishwasher. While I spend my mornings reorganizing the fruit in the fridge and counting how many granola bars we have left, I can’t remember the last time I washed my hair. I haven’t painted my nails in 16 months. It would seem counterintuitive to invest in some beautiful red nails if I have to scrub the pan after my family has devoured that simple roast chicken recipe.
When did I sign up to cook three meals a day for a family of four? My son has become a bottomless pit who eats his dinner and then looks for cereal and yogurt afterwards. My daughter likes three different flavors of expensive ice cream, and prefers I scoop them onto sugar cones. My husband is always on the hunt for snacks; our cabinet looks like a tech start-up snack bar with fancy nuts, dried fruit and granola bars I’ve never even heard of.
My kitchen, however, looks like a war zone. Dull kitchen knives, loose pot covers, split cutting boards. Cracked tea mugs, missing spoons, a bent colander. Stained potholders, a broken lasagna dish, and more frayed kitchen towels than I can count.
I’m convinced our microwave, refrigerator, oven, and dishwasher are quietly plotting a mutiny as they pretend not to work and, on some days, refuse to start. And who could blame them? They were pre-pandemic purchases, kitchen upgrades that were never intended to be used this frequently.
In fact, they signed up for a home where they knew their contributions would be minimal. With two busy working parents, they knew the microwave would bear the brunt of the burden. They’d spend most days resting while knocks on the door indicated the arrival of Uber Eats and ding! reminded them of the warming of Tyson’s chicken nuggets in the already worn toaster oven.
As restaurants have opened up, I can hear the collective sigh–followed by a big cheer–across the country from all of the parents who need a reprieve from the kitchen. Aprons are tossed to the side and dirty dishes are piled up and left in the sink. Don’t forget the piles of recycling sitting there waiting to be taken out!
The three out of 10 of us are all running to our first dinner reservation, our first meal, our first gathering outside of the home at a table cluttered with crayons and construction paper that is not our own. We’re dashing, sprinting, racing to remember what it’s like to have someone bring you a hot meal made just for you–not leftovers you’re eating off your child’s plate.
My first meal out with my family was indescribable. I was nervous, anxious and elated as I reluctantly slipped my mask off. I was mesmerized by the menu, sitting in awe of a table that was already set without any plastic cutlery. I looked around in wonder, watching other patrons quietly enjoying their meals, listening to the clink, clank of real silverware.
I was speechless when the waiter refilled my water in an adult glass without my asking. I teared up as I was handed a steaming hot bowl of lobster bisque with warm bread. I sniffled as I was given the dessert menu: no chocolate chip cookies, no Ben & Jerry’s Strawberry Cheesecake, and no Firecracker Popsicles. The bill came and I didn’t have to worry about doing a pile of dishes. Out of habit, I started to stack the plates and clear the table. The waiter smiled at me, his eyes telling me he was wondering what on earth I was doing. He thanked me, taking the dishes from my hands. I stood there with nothing left to do but to grab my purse and walk out the door with my husband and surprisingly well-behaved children.
I am officially unsubscribing to The New York Times‘ “What to Cook this Week.” My husband is now in charge of not just ordering, but also making all of our Hello Fresh meals. I don’t want to hold another spatula, drizzle olive oil, nor sprinkle spices or squeeze sauces, stir, stir, stirring with a splash of reserved pasta water–until at least January 2022.
This Head Chef is officially taking a sabbatical. This kitchen will be closing and then re-opening some random date after Labor Day, maybe. You’re welcome to help yourself to anything in our kitchen if you do plan a visit: Goldfish crackers, cheese string, and yogurt sticks. Just please, please, please ensure you order a replacement of the milk on your way out–we’ll need it, and I’m sure not getting it.
Mita Mallick is the Head of Inclusion, Equity and Impact at Carta and loves living in Jersey City with her husband and two young kiddos.
Lifestyle
The pandemic has given me infinite gratitude for life’s simple pleasures. So if you need a snack, get it yourself.
A C-Suite mom is sick of cooking for her family of four after 15 months–so she’ll be dining out.
