Bachelor cookin’

Sometimes I run into mentions of cooking and recipes. That’s not my field really; my own cooking has three, four different recipes that I can pull off without constant mortal dread and that don’t consist of “you heats it, you eats it”.

Also, I tend to follow the Lovecraftian “do not push down that which you cannot keep down” rule of judging the results because that way I can still have some pride in what I create.

Thus with ample experience, just in case someone — those with cooking skills, those about to move out to live on their own, people with less ability or more prudence — needs a description of what that is like,  I provide this meta-recipe for bachelor cooking:

  • Get recipe.
  • Get ingredients.
  • Get time.
  • Get hungry.
  • Begin following the recipe; ad hoc the cups you need, and guess the measures the best you can.
  • “Butter never goes bad, right? Right?”
  • “But I don’t have salt! Maybe sugar will do.”
  • “Spices? Bah, I just sprinkle a bit of pizza spice on it. Basilica my arse!”
  • “Hot! Hot! Hot!”
  • Wait while the Thing boils, cooks or fries. Meanwhile fret about “until golden brown” or the equal, unsure of what the end result is supposed to look like and if it’s particularly obvious when that point has been passed.
  • “Stop whispering to me! I did not want to create life! Oh wait, it’s just expanding… water… gas… phase transition… wait, is that supposed to happen?”
  • Stick a fork or a finger in it. In the latter case scream, suck, loudly admit you suck, hope no-one’s listening. Cook, fry, etc. some more.
  • “Alien” flashback. Move away from the pod of your creation; laugh nervously.
  • Power off the stove, take the Thing out, wait for it to cool. Wonder if you’d have time to duck under the table if the Thing gave signs of imminent explosive decompression.
  • Eat.
  • Eat some more.
  • Wonder.
  • Several hours later (this part is optional) queasiness, then screaming, crying human windtunnel diarrhea.
  • Repeat.
  • Panicky inability to recall if you have another roll of paper after this swiftly depleting one; cold awful determination to do a bit of triage at the paperback shelf after this fit passes and flushes.
  • Repeat.
  • A cookbook with nice thick pages.
  • “Oh god in heaven, I feel like an infected donut. One long highway of burning, raspy abuse running through me, throat to hind. And I’m sure I’ve evacuated a lot more than I ate. Is there any way to see if my pancreas sloshed out with that previous bucket of sludge? What do pancreas look like anyway?”
  • Put the remaining Thing into the fridge. Forget.
  • Several days later note you need that particular plate or bowl; look into the fridge, note there has been a color change inside.
  • Wash the plate/bowl; wash it again, this time without holding it behind your back and retching. Then wash it a third time, with water hot enough to boil lobsters in.
  • Look at the plate/bowl. Carefully sniff. Contemplate pouring hydrogen peroxide into your nostrils just to be sure you didn’t catch something. Put the plate/bowl away somewhere; use some other cup instead.

Ask any bachelor you know and they’ll loudly protest this isn’t an accurate depiction of their cooking. Then they’ll go and cry in a corner, clutching their knees and swaying back and forth, because the flashbacks and the stomach cramps and I didn’t mention the Milk Substitution and they fear it’s something unique only to them.

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