In less than two weeks, I will be getting married. Less than a week after that, I will be moving across the country to live with a person who will then be my husband. Though I do not subscribe to the stereotypical gender roles which dictate that I, as the wife, need to cook and clean for my husband, in this case they seem only reasonable: I will be unemployed, at least at first, and he will not.
The problem, then, is that I do not know how to cook. At all. I mean, over the twenty-some years of my life, I have managed a few basics. I can make most meat not poisonous. I can cook french toast, and grilled cheese sandwiches, and even throw together some decent hamburger helper (usually). But I am an extremely picky eater, and picky eaters aren’t typically the biggest experimenters. I am wary of what I see as unavoidable nights wherein, following the preparation of something that I will certainly deem inedible, we are forced to spend additional resources acquiring food prepared by professionals. But I hope that the phase of extreme waste will not last for very long.
I may not have learned how to cook so far, but I have discovered that learning, in general, is one thing at which I excel. As a recent college graduate with no immediate plans for continuing my formal education further, I’ll need something to occupy my mind. So, armed with (so far) two cookbooks, a household income able to support occasionally buying dinner twice, and what will almost certainly amount to frustrating amounts of free time, I am prepared to embark on a journey of what seems to be epic proportions; only time will tell whether I ultimately succeed.