A Fear of Frying

It’s embarrassing to admit that at 19 – the age I was when I started university - I couldn’t make an omelette. I loved food, but I knew nothing about cooking.

My excuse: I worked in an Italian restaurant with generous chefs who loved fattening up the waiting staff. I survived on carbonara, endless amounts of bruschetta, and slightly out-of-date cheesecake. If I wasn’t working, I was spoilt at home with parents who saw cooking as a hobby.

One of my friends went to uni before me. He didn’t know that you cooked pasta in water. He set his kitchen on fire. I knew water was involved in cooking pasta; with a wee bit of practice over the summer I’d be fine.

I did not think about uni all summer. This laidback approach resulted in an intense fear of my kitchen.

On my first night, I cut myself removing knives from their packaging. For the majority of the first semester, I ate alone in my room with a film for company. I spent hours planning my shopping lists only to eat pizza and baked potatoes on rotation. I went home on weekends to experience vegetables.

One night, my flatmate was in the kitchen producing smells that transported me back to the Italian restaurant. As I took my pizza from the microwave, she pulled out a homemade pizza. This compared to my cardboard soaked in grease was too much. It made me hungry, and desperate for variety and I envied the satisfaction of making something from scratch. This moment, and slight malnutrition, forced me into cooking.

When I finally admitted to my flatmates that I couldn’t cook, they offered up their favourite, cheap and easy recipes. Quickly, I realised that with a trusted recipe, cooking could be straightforward. I liked the meditative quality of following steps and having an instant outcome. It became a relaxing break in my day – rather than a necessary task to avoid starvation.

Now, as my first year ends, mealtimes are sacred. I go into the kitchen hungry for food and discussion. I end up in the kitchen for hours, learning about my flatmates’ lives. Every week we drive to Asda, dance through the aisles, and inspect the discount section. I’ve invited strangers over for dinner and used Bolognese to spark friendships.

I still haven’t mastered omelettes, but I’m not scared to try.