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One spring, I moved into an empty apartment with little else but a fridge. It was a secondhand LG Electrocool, with a constellation of soft dents and mismatched ice-cube trays that looked like they had been taken from smaller, much older machines. But it worked, and had slotted into a slim gap in the kitchen perfectly. Most nights, I would fall asleep to the faint growl of its dimpled belly, comforted by the thought that a cool, bluish light was guarding my sugary snacks and cheeses.
I had moved out alone after leaving a relationship that shaped much of my adult history: first month-long overseas trip, first dinner parties, first fleeting thoughts of ironically named pets and fern ownership. Afterwards, a different world of firsts existed outside of it. The thrill of long showers and diagonal sleeping, for example – is matched only by the shock of the first large insects to be killed. On other days, singledom felt like a kind of rehabilitation, a slow relearning of familiar routines. What I didn’t know was that some of the biggest adjustments would be felt in the simple act of preparing a meal.
"I broke off one stalk and took it to the cashier, who told me I had to pay for the whole head." Source: Flickr
Widowed at 72, Jones had found herself faced with the unexpected awkwardness of food shopping as a solo home cook.
It’s a valid grievance.
What I didn’t know was that some of the biggest adjustments would be felt in the simple act of preparing a meal.
Even the toughest, most happily single cooks would be rattled by the thought of five nights of chicken or broccoli. Then there are the herbs and spices that no solo household could finish. By the time you’re done at the meat aisle, you might find yourself asking: Are most people living the kind life that can absorb a kilo of ground beef?
We don’t eat merely to survive. And yet there seems to be a cultural consensus that time spent in the kitchen is only worthwhile when it’s done in company. Think of the dry, functional language around solo-cooking. Most recipes are pitched as “simple”, “convenient” or else “waste-free” – as if every onion diced, every carrot peeled should only be done with an embarrassed efficiency.
Even the most happily single cooks would be rattled by the thought of five nights eating the same dish. Source: Pexel
What Garner touches on is our complicated history with food and vulnerability. From childhood, we have come to witness meal-making as a private (if awkward) expression of love. We see it in our parent’s clumsy attempts at frosting oddly shaped cakes, our best friend’s restorative brownies, or the way our crush’s eyes light up at the first taste of the perfect we have put on their plates.
A woman on her own can easily get into the habit of standing at the open fridge door and dining on a cold boiled potato. I was determined to be elegant in my solitude.
Yet alone at the fridge door, without someone we deem worthy to justify our effort – it can feel almost impossible to extend ourselves the same amount of care and patience.
Interestingly, the ritual of cooking for one hasn’t always been slogged with such weightiness. We forget the thrill of melting cheese on bread as an after-school snack, the first cheap stir-fry at a share house, and the endless nights of pasta at a faraway hostel, drunk on the excitement of being the farthest we’ve ever been from home.
An after-school highlight: the impromptu cheese toastie. (Alan Benson)
When a lone boiled egg remained at the end, I propped the ready-made snack next to its uncooked neighbours in the fridge. It was evidence I had fed myself well. And a reminder that there would always be something to look forward to in the fridge’s cool, humming belly.
