The Slattern Rants: “Oh no, I don’t cook.”
As I have previously documented in my cluttery, overfurnished, boozy little corner of the blogosphere, given even a glimmer of a chance, I would move into a hotel and eat every meal in a restaurant for the rest of my life. In a heartbeat. Alas, though we all have dreams, we must also live in the real world. As such I can cook, and of necessity I do cook; from time to time I’ll admit I even enjoy it.
Knowing how to prepare a basic meal is just one of those things a reasonably competant adult should be able to do, along with riding a bicycle, driving a car and swallowing the worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle without going all sissy and gagging.
Now I’m not saying everyone needs to be able to rustle up a standing rib roast or les nonnettes de poulet Agnès Sorel at the drop of a hat, but really the production of a simple omelette or burger should be well within the abilities of even the meanest intelligence. Hell, Guy Fieri has built a lucrative career as a cook, and he can’t even figure out which side of his head his fucking sunglasses belong on.
See, here’s the thing of it. Obviously I can’t condemn someone who is too dim to follow a recipe, and I certainly don’t begrudge those who can, but prefer not to. I’m probably related to the former, and I sincerely hope one day to join the ranks of the latter. It’s the people who proudly say, “Oh, I don’t cook” — with that unsubtle moue of distaste, obvious sense of superiority, and more than a flicker of contempt — who just fry my ass.
Now this applies equally to men and women, but I find that, with a few notable exceptions, men are usually pretty straightforward about their shortcomings, preferences or ignorance in matters gourmet, whereas certain of their female counterparts have elevated overbearing non-cooking snobbery and condescension to an art form. In my line of work — urban hausfrau, that is — I have had ample opportunity to study the species bitchus pain in the assus up close and personal, and in my experience snotty non-cookers usually fall into one of several broad categories.
Her “unique” appearance clearly signals that she is just way too creative to apply her genius to anything outside the studio. For her, Saran Wrap, yams and meat thermometers are only relevant as performance art props. Ask her to toss the salad and she’ll gobble it down, throw it right back up and write a poem about it. Hand her some tongs and she’ll put on a puppet show with them. When confronted with a whisk, she will likely try to sing into it.
The princess feels that cooking is beneath her. She’d like you to believe they had servants for all that sort of thing when she was growing up. If she could, she’d not only have someone cook for her, but also have a food taster and third stooge to chew it all up. Times being what they are, however, she makes due with dinner at Bouley and the odd Thai takeout. Oh how the mighty have fallen.
The Ball Buster
Having long since smashed the glass ceiling, thrashed every underling who had the temerity to breathe in her presence and consumed the souls of the unfortunate interns sacrificed on the alter of her narcissistic self-god, the ball buster would no sooner get a meal than she would smile without thinking of eating your liver. Raw. No cooking involved or needed.
She’s so busy watching Sex in the City reruns, wriggling in and out of her Le Perla thong and making personal “biographical” video tapes of her gorgeous self that she wouldn’t cook even if she was willing to stoop that low. She’ll stoop. Just not to stir a pot.
Do not even get me started on people who don’t have televisions.