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What I Learned When I Learned to Cook

Words: Shannon Devy


For many years, I refused to learn to cook. To me, cooking appeared time-consuming, dreadfully boring, and prone to producing dirty dishes. For years I subsisted entirely on Woolies meals, Nando’s wraps, coffee shop fare, and the kindness of others. My approach to cooking was dating people who cooked, and this was a surprising successful survival strategy. I was an expert at washing up but, when it came to the operation of stoves and knives, I felt strongly that such dangerous activities were really none of my business. By the age of 36, my culinary skills extended no further than the occasional toasted cheese sandwich, and I was getting along just fine. That is, until I met Mia. 



While I was always careful to select partners who cooked, Mia was in a league of her own. A deeply talented cook, Mia had spent lockdown in her digs kitchen teaching herself the dark arts of slow-roasted tomato sauce and delicately browned butter, ceviche and butter-fried celery. By the time we started dating, she had a formidable arsenal of simply exceptional dishes at her disposal, making dinner at hers an absolute joy.


For the first two years of our relationship, Mia cooked. We moved in together. I tackled the dishes, the driving, and a large share of the cleaning. Mia cooked and cooked. Night after night, she placed before me one outstanding dish after the next. From rich, cheesy parmigianas to buttery butternut pastas, to hearty, nourishing chicken soups, she cooked with such care and inspiration, I knew I couldn’t possibly compete. Why try? I’d hit the jackpot. My plan had come together perfectly. I would never need to know how to peel a potato or chop an onion. I was destined for a life of luxury, and Mia would never wash another dish. Fair deal, right? Not really. 

You see, what I had failed to factor in was the fact that cooking begins long before the click of the gas burner. The mental load of planning and executing a relentless parade of nutritiously balanced dinners while managing the budget, the pantry and the fridge takes its toll, and after two years of grace, Mia gently informed me that it was, in fact, time. I needed to conquer the kitchen, and she had a plan to help me get there. 

The next week, Mia signed us up for uCook, a meal subscription service that delivered the ingredients and recipes for three lovely meals straight to the front door every Monday. This way, I wouldn’t have to worry about the intricacies of meal planning to start, and I could focus on getting comfortable with the basics. Under Mia’s expert eye, I got to work. I peeled and chopped and fried and roasted. I learned how to cut an onion, boil a potato, and manage heat. With infinite patience, Mia showed me how to salt in stages to maximize flavour. She answered my questions, and helped fix my terrible sauces. And as I got more comfortable and the initial stress of being responsible for dinner abated, I started to notice something remarkable – I was enjoying myself. 


The disasters were frequent. I remember once, after misunderstanding the drained versus net weight indications on a can of tinned tomatoes, I added 1.5 litres of puree to a spaghetti bolognaise. The result was nothing short of canteen slop – entirely inedible. After poor Mia tried to drain her spaghetti over the sink, I thought it best to order Uber Eats. But I also remember the first dish I absolutely nailed: pork fillet with an almond brown butter sauce. I remember the look on Mia’s face when she took her first bite, and I remember understanding, in that moment, what cooking really meant: that carefully preparing delicious, nourishing meals is a powerful way to care for yourself, and for those you love. It’s a way to make life more beautiful and more enjoyable – a quiet, meaningful way to show love. That’s what Mia was showing me with all the effort, skill, talent and time she put into meal after meal, year after year. That’s what I hope to show her and others as I continue to learn and try and fail in our little kitchen. 


I still haven’t cracked the spaghetti bolognaise. But I’m going to keep trying. 

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