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I'm a Great Cook. Now That I'm Divorced, I'm Never Making Dinner for a Man Again
"I stopped cooking because I wanted to feel as unencumbered as a man walking through the door with the expectation that something had been done for him." As part of Glamour.com's weeklong series on modern divorce, writer Lyz Lenz explains.
When my marriage fell apart, I stopped cooking. I gave my children frozen chicken nuggets, pizza, quesadillas, or their favorite: toddler tapas—cheese sticks, nuts, fruit, crackers, veggies, all displayed on a hand-me-down china platter. Now they eat like "fancy ladies," as my first grader says, piling her little paper plate with nuts and grapes. I live off of bagged salads, rotisserie chicken, and whiskey.
I stopped cooking because I was tired. The kind of tired where your face vibrates and your eyes throb. Too tired to care what I put in my mouth. And my children (then six and four) only wanted to eat Go-Gurts and Cheez-Its anyway. The person who cared was my husband. I had been cooking for him for 12 years.
When we first married and moved to Iowa, I couldn't find a job. I spent my days cooking. I worked my way through The Joy of Cooking—mastering pastry dough for beef Wellington, rolling tortillas on a cutting board on the kitchen floor of our apartment because there was no counter space. I cut open chicken breasts and stuffed them with blue cheese. I braided challah and pinched gnocchi. I made all sorts of pie—lemon, French silk, apple, so many kinds of apple—their molten insides burning my fingers and my tongue as I sampled them hoping they'd turn out well. Hoping that when he came home, my husband would sit down and taste them and say, "Thank you."
Inspired by online recipe sites, he'd sit down to dinner and then let me know what rating I earned. "If I give you five out of five, you'll quit," he joked. And I laughed because when I was in my 20s, I believed that you were supposed to laugh when someone hurt your feelings. I thought you were constantly supposed to be trying harder.
I did try harder. I developed my own pizza dough recipe and every Friday made pizzas—barbeque pork, goat cheese and heirloom tomato, chicken and ranch, caramelized onion and fresh mozzarella, mac and cheese. I made them thin and thick. Sweet and savory. My dough recipe took years to develop and a whole day to make. I'd begin on Fridays at five in the morning, finishing with the dishes at seven at night.
https://www.glamour.com/story/now-that-im-divorced-im-never-making-dinner-for-a-man-again
When my marriage fell apart, I stopped cooking. I gave my children frozen chicken nuggets, pizza, quesadillas, or their favorite: toddler tapas—cheese sticks, nuts, fruit, crackers, veggies, all displayed on a hand-me-down china platter. Now they eat like "fancy ladies," as my first grader says, piling her little paper plate with nuts and grapes. I live off of bagged salads, rotisserie chicken, and whiskey.
I stopped cooking because I was tired. The kind of tired where your face vibrates and your eyes throb. Too tired to care what I put in my mouth. And my children (then six and four) only wanted to eat Go-Gurts and Cheez-Its anyway. The person who cared was my husband. I had been cooking for him for 12 years.
When we first married and moved to Iowa, I couldn't find a job. I spent my days cooking. I worked my way through The Joy of Cooking—mastering pastry dough for beef Wellington, rolling tortillas on a cutting board on the kitchen floor of our apartment because there was no counter space. I cut open chicken breasts and stuffed them with blue cheese. I braided challah and pinched gnocchi. I made all sorts of pie—lemon, French silk, apple, so many kinds of apple—their molten insides burning my fingers and my tongue as I sampled them hoping they'd turn out well. Hoping that when he came home, my husband would sit down and taste them and say, "Thank you."
Inspired by online recipe sites, he'd sit down to dinner and then let me know what rating I earned. "If I give you five out of five, you'll quit," he joked. And I laughed because when I was in my 20s, I believed that you were supposed to laugh when someone hurt your feelings. I thought you were constantly supposed to be trying harder.
I did try harder. I developed my own pizza dough recipe and every Friday made pizzas—barbeque pork, goat cheese and heirloom tomato, chicken and ranch, caramelized onion and fresh mozzarella, mac and cheese. I made them thin and thick. Sweet and savory. My dough recipe took years to develop and a whole day to make. I'd begin on Fridays at five in the morning, finishing with the dishes at seven at night.
https://www.glamour.com/story/now-that-im-divorced-im-never-making-dinner-for-a-man-again
6 replies
= new reply since forum marked as read
= new reply since forum marked as read
Right down to the Beef Wellington.
Used to enjoy cooking but not any more. Hard work and rarely a word of "thanks".
I'll admit it, I just really don't care anymore. Nope.
What a waste of time, energy and money trying to be something I never was, a gourmet cook.
