I Could Just Make Pasta

I thought I was the only one who cared about dinner. Turns out, I was just the only one cooking it.

This Sunday morning is brought to you by both the stove and my journal. I didn’t publish a newsletter this Thursday, because I’m having a crisis of faith (in humanity) and I was trying to figure out how to write about it honestly. (Spoiler: I did not figure anything out.)

The Unabridged Slouch: a journal entry on my crisis of faith (in humanity)

I spent five hours in the kitchen yesterday. It seems extreme, but it averages out to 43 minutes a day. When you figure that makes for five (basically) Michelin-star meals plus homemade bread, dessert, and clean up for the week, it’s not bad at all. But it was my whole Saturday and I was, in fact, bummed that I didn’t get to go swimming with the twins. I was bummed that I didn’t get to read Wuthering Heights or work on any of my book binding projects.

In my self-pity, I told J that I created this problem for myself that I could just make pasta every other night.

His face turned into a sort of confused scowl when I said it. And he said something like “yeah, I guess. But it would get old.”

I am sure I was the one with a confused scowl on my face at that point because I thought I was the only one who cared about food in our house. My husband can cook, but cooking has long been a point of contention in our marriage because he doesn’t want to cook.

But the face. The scowl. It said I may not want to cook, but I want to benefit from you doing it. And while there is something that feels deeply misogynistic about this, I can’t say that without admitting that I don’t want to fold the laundry, so most of the time he does it.

So I had to ask myself what it is about dinner that feels different from the laundry?

⛔ You’ve hit the paywall.

I write these entries for people carrying a lot—of laundry, of longing, of questions about what makes a good life.

✦ The Unabridged Slouch, every other Thursday: raw reflections on marriage, motherhood, and meaning
✦ Sunday, at the stove: food worth making, and what it cost (cognitively and emotionally) to make it

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