I had what I call my ‘single gal’ dinner last night.
For all you foodies out there, grab a pen and paper and note this down:
Cook some 2-minute Mi Goreng noodles, empty a tin of tuna on top and shove in a stalk of spring onion (to make it, you know, balanced.)
I ate this at 9:30pm, in bed, watching 30 Rock on my laptop.
Do you know what I had for dinner the night before?
Neither do I, but it was in a Tupperware container and didn’t taste off, and apparently I’d cooked it at some earlier stage, though I haven’t been home for dinner for like 2 weeks…
The night before that I had a banana because I was tired and my kitchen still hasn’t got the hang of cooking meals itself, no matter how long I stand in front of the open fridge staring at its contents.
Now don’t get me wrong – I love food. I’d marry food in a civil ceremony if only they’d make it legal. I just wish it would meet me halfway and prepare itself.
I haven’t always been like this. Back when I was in a long-term live-in relationship I cooked, was cooked for and ate like later-life Marlon Brando. (Whereas now I eat like later-later-life Marlon Brando when he became an island recluse and ate nothing but frozen hot dogs.)
And before this I’d always lived in share houses where meals were often communal and had to be vaguely creative and nutritious or else face the judgement of a ravenous pack of twenty-something Gen Y-ers (and if you can find something more sarcastically snarky than that, you win a big shiny prize.)
But now that I’m living solo and cooking for one I just can’t be bothered. You know that scene in every post-zombie apocalypse film where the protagonist (who is often Will Smith) stumbles across an abandoned farmhouse and opens the fridge to find it near empty but for some turned milk and an unidentifiable mouldy mess? That’s what my fridge looks like on a regular basis and the zombie uprising hasn’t even happened yet.