I just moved into my second-year apartment and honestly I have never felt more incompetent in my life. All summer, I was riding high on this sense of independence—thinking living on my own would be a breeze. Despite my parent’s warnings, I blundered on with the confidence of an 18-year-old, excited to live in their own apartment for the first time. I promised myself I’d learn basic cooking techniques over the summer, but somehow I never found the time. When my mother encouraged me to watch her while she cooked I brushed her off, insisting I’d figure it out when the time came. Eventually it did and it also turned out to be the moment I realized that maybe, just maybe, I had no idea what I was doing.
Cooking will always be connected in my mind to my dad. He has a talent and a passion for cooking that is indescribable. My mother always says that as soon as he comes home, the kitchen is bound to be stacked with pots and pans, all four stovetops firing, with aromas of spices, sauces and meat floating through the air. He’s not a chef by profession but he has that rare, intuitive ability with food that some people just seem to be born with. As I fumble through the basics on my own I find myself thinking about him more than ever. I was hoping his cooking talent would somehow transfer genetically to me and I would stare at ingredients and know exactly how to prepare them the way he does.
But I have never been known as the chef in my family. While my sister can creatively combine grains, proteins and vegetables into a flavour profile medley she somehow visualizes and tastes in her head, I can maybe scramble an egg. Looking back, it’s a little humbling to admit how much I relied on my parents to take care of those basic, everyday needs while I poured my energy into academics and extracurriculars. Now that safety net is gone. My parents are all the way on the other side of the country and I’m here, staring at empty saucepans and wondering how long I could reasonably survive on instant ramen without major health side effects.
So more often than not, I find myself scrolling through TikTok, YouTube Shorts, or Googling the latest “10-minute healthy DIY meal”—only to mess it up completely. I cough down kale that I may have added a “tad” bit too much salt to and grimace through under seasoned quinoa that I was convinced had more natural flavour than it did (spoiler alert: it did not). In my first week I had my sights set on a rolled oats hard boiled egg combo that I envisioned as the perfect breakfast meal. In reality, the oats turned out half raw and I had to crack open the egg in the sink to prevent the raw whites from dripping onto the floor. A truly perfect start to my second year.
Despite countless failures and endless frustrations with myself I know I have to keep trying. I’m supposed to be a “responsible adult” now and if I can’t even feed myself, how can I possibly survive in this world? Without proper healthy food, I can’t concentrate on my studies, can’t pursue my dreams and ambitions, or pour my energy into things I love doing. That’s not something I’m willing to give up just because I was late to the party on the art of cooking. I may be slower than other people my age at understanding and learning things – but I do learn. So even though I hate it, even though it reminds me everyday that I was never as independent as I initially thought I could be, I’ll keep putting myself in front of the stove everyday.
I will keep experimenting; failing and succeeding and failing and succeeding until something finally clicks. I’ll celebrate my little kitchen victories and brush off my failures as best as I can. I’ll choke down my salty kale and think about ways to improve it for next time. Through it all, I’ll keep imagining my dad here in Kingston, cooking with me and always cheering me on.