Still, for many, home cooking is nigh inconceivable. Maybe you work 80 hours a week, and can’t find 20 minutes to make a sandwich. Maybe you live in New York’s East Village, where your apartment galley doubles as your bathroom and your bedroom. Maybe you never learned to cook, and are afraid of blowing $10 on a chicken, then charring it beyond recognition.
Fortunately, we here at the CHG laboratory (translation: my bathroom) have the answer.
First, we isolated a handful factors that most affect peoples’ ability to fire up their own stoves. They are: time, space (in the capacity sense, not the extraterrestrial sense), inexperience, fear of failure, and The Damn Dishes. More than anything else, these five elements drive the average folk to takeout, restaurants, and pilfering fruit from sweet old ladies.
Then, drawing from extensive research and our own experiences, we brainstormed tips and tricks to combat these hindrances. Without further ado, here's everything.
The problem, defined: Since it’s a thrice-daily activity, cooking can be a total time suck. And if you have children, a demanding job, or stuff to do, it’s difficult blocking an hour or two per day for food prep. Consider this: in the 1950s, Americans (read: women) spent about 20 hours a week in the kitchen. Today, it’s less than six.
The solution, explained: Prioritizing cooking isn’t a full-throttle, 0-to-60 overnight deal. It’s a habit developed gradually, and you have to give yourself some leeway. So, start small. Eat breakfast at home everyday for a week, or take 20 minutes to make a basic, from-scratch meal. Try bringing lunch to work. Force yourself to sit down, at your table, and drink a full cup of coffee. Eat in your kitchen instead of in front of your television. Find three or four easy recipes, and cook all your food for the week on a Sunday. Enlist help from the kids/husband/erstwhile in-laws. Again: take baby steps, and don't forget to give yourself a break. With a few months and constant reinforcement, that hour-a-day will start to come naturally.
The problem, defined: Your place has exactly enough room for you, your roommate from Albania, and the dust bunnies you’re raising together as common law spouses. There’s no space for a box of cereal, never mind a 12-piece set of Calphalon.
The solution, explained: You’re already starting small, so that advice is out the window (if, in fact, you have a window). Instead, think big. Where else can you store food, besides your refrigerator and/or cabinet(s)? Is there room under your bed? On top of the microwave? Under the table? Can you install shelving over doorways? Are there Lazy Susans or mini-shelving you can cram under your sink? Check Apartment Therapy’s Smallest Coolest contest for creative ideas, and always remember: IKEA is your friend. For more, check Frugal Storage Solutions for the Small Kitchen, a CHG post from November 2008.
The problem, defined: When it comes to cooking, there are fetuses with more wherewithal. At least they know what to do with leftovers.
The solution, explained: Remember: everybody has to start somewhere. If you don’t know a scallop from a shallot, that’s fine. No one’s evaluating you. Don’t be afraid to experiment and play, and know that you’ll foul up on occasion, sometimes monumentally. Picking up a simple cookbook always helps (suggestions: any Betty Crocker tome, How to Cook Everything by Mark Bittman, How to Boil Water by Food Network), as do basic recipe sites (AllRecipes, Food Blog Search, etc.), beginners’ TV shows (Everyday Italian, etc.) and fun magazines (Everyday Food, etc.). If you know a good cook, take some time to watch them work. Because if he/she can do it, so can you.
FEAR OF FAILURE
The problem, defined: You buy the finest ingredients. You have all the cooking equipment you possibly need. You’ve watched hour after hour of Julia Child spatchcocking … whatever it is that can be spatchcocked. Still, everything you make ranges in quality from suck to blow. Why waste all that money and time if you know it’s going to be terrible?
The solution, explained: From Eric Ripert to your great-grandma Mary Sue, all chefs have had disasters, often repeatedly. While prompting you to “Suck it up and get back in the game, champ!” is clichéd and glib, there’s some truth to its underlying optimism. You’ll never get any better if you don’t learn from mistakes (your numerous, calamitous mistakes). If you’re concerned about cost, practice your technique on lower-priced ingredients with Craigslist-caliber cookware (and keep a few inexpensive insta-meals around for backup). Don’t forget to read recipes several times and taste your creations as you prepare them. It’ll save you from undersalting or overcooking. Finally, if you can find one, make a loved one your personal guinea pig. Eventually, as you get better, he/she will reap the culinary rewards. Now suck it up and get back in the game, champ!
THE DAMN DISHES
The problem, defined: After 18 roommates and nine apartments spread over 13 years, I’m secretly convinced that 95% of cooking blocks come from one thing: nobody (me included) wants to do The Damn Dishes. Time-consuming and the total opposite of fun, they’re a pain in the tuchus for all involved. In college, I knew a guy who would leave his Damn Dishes in the sink for DAYS, until his roommates couldn’t take it anymore, surrendered, and washed them. Also - cooking shows and cookbooks NEVER, EVER consider The Damn Dishes when they’re telling you how to make food. I love Ina Garten, but if I ever saw her wash a Damn Dish on Barefoot Contessa, I’d drop dead.
The solution, explained: If you don’t have a dishwasher, I feel your pain. An already-tedious task becomes more difficult when it’s compounded by Whirlpool envy. Starting out with simple, one-pot meals can alleviate this somewhat, as can concentrating on cold salads and sandwiches, which naturally involve fewer dishes. You could also choose one day per week to do all your cooking, which condenses the dishwashing into a half-hour or so. If all else fails, try setting up a system with your roommate/family/Husband-Elect, wherein you do the cooking and he/she/they does/do the dishes. You’ll eat well and avoid dishpan hands.
If you DO have a dishwasher … use it. Lucky dog.
And that’s our ballgame, sweet readers. If you have any suggestions or ideas, please fire away in the comment section. We’re waiting for your call!
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