For John & Dana, who taught me the answers to all your questions…. blessed memories from people on both sides of the whispering door. Sometimes I imagine you talk back.
I’ve been a line cook since I was thirty. Not one of those kids who gets swept into the industry at eighteen and never leaves, but someone who came in as a fully formed adult with a sense of self and a working understanding of exhaustion. I’ve worked in kitchens off and on for a decade, long enough to know the rhythm, long enough to know the cost, and long enough to see the difference between loving food and loving the labor of food. They are not the same thing. They were never the same thing.
And because I didn’t start young, I never had the luxury of romanticizing the work. I didn’t have that early‑career haze where the adrenaline feels like purpose and the chaos feels like belonging. I came in with adult eyes, and adult knees, and adult rent, and I saw the kitchen for what it was: a place where you sweat, and lift, and repeat the same motions thousands of times, and somehow still manage to feed people well enough that they think you’re doing something magical.
But here’s the truth that only cooks say to each other: the magic is mostly repetition. The magic is muscle memory. The magic is surviving the shift.
And because I’ve lived that, I’m the last person on earth who will shame anyone for using prepared meals. I use them too. I use them because there’s the Joy of Cooking — the aspirational, leisurely, weekend version of food — and then there’s real life, where you pay the ADHD tax up front because you know damn well that if dinner requires twelve steps and three pans, you’re going to end up eating cereal at ten o’clock and calling it a personality trait.
People think cooking is hard because technique is hard. Technique isn’t hard. Technique is teachable. Technique is repetition. Technique is something I can show you in ten minutes if you actually want to learn. What’s hard is the relentlessness. The daily‑ness. The “you mean I have to do this every day?” of it all. Cooking is not a task; it’s a treadmill. Plan, shop, cook, clean, repeat. Forever. Until you die or start ordering takeout with the dead‑eyed calm of someone who has accepted their fate.
And that’s why I say, with love and clarity: if you don’t want to cook, don’t cook. Stick to the things with directions on the package and call it a day. You’re not failing. You’re not lazy. You’re not “less than.” You’re choosing the lane that keeps you fed without draining your life force.
I’ll help you if you want to learn. I’ll teach you knife skills, seasoning, heat control, whatever you need. I’ll do it without judgment because everyone starts somewhere, and I actually enjoy teaching people who want to be taught. But I will never tell you that you should want to learn. Wanting to cook is a preference, not a virtue. It’s not a moral category. It’s not a sign of adulthood. It’s not a measure of care.
And I say that as someone who has lived on sandwiches eaten half‑asleep over a trash can. That’s not a metaphor. That’s the reality of kitchen life. People imagine cooks going home and making elaborate meals, but the truth is that most of us survive on whatever we can assemble and inhale in ninety seconds. A turkey club. A grilled cheese. A breakfast sandwich at three in the afternoon. A cold cut roll‑up because toasting the bread feels like too much. The only time I ever ate like a human being was at Biddy’s, where we were allowed to make ourselves a shift meal — a burger, a salad, something simple off the line. Not “hog wild.” Not stealing tenderloins out the back door. Just enough food to keep going. That tiny sliver of autonomy felt like luxury.
So when I tell you that boxed cake mix is valid, I’m not being cute. I’m being honest. Boxed cake mix was literally invented to free people — especially women — from domestic pressure. It’s engineered to be foolproof. It’s designed so that you can follow the directions and get a cake every single time. You don’t have to be a gourmet cook. You don’t have to be a baker. You don’t have to be anything other than a person who can read the back of a box. And if you want to add orange zest to a yellow cake mix and pour an orange glaze over the top, congratulations — you’ve just made a dessert that tastes intentional without having to perform any culinary acrobatics.
This is the same philosophy I learned from sommeliers, who are the most over‑it professionals in the entire food world. After years of performing expertise for people who want to be impressed, they eventually arrive at the only sane conclusion: drink what you like. Not what’s correct. Not what’s impressive. Not what pairs with the duck confit. Just what you like. And that’s the energy I bring to cooking now. Eat what you enjoy. Cook what you can handle. Use the tools that make your life easier. Stop performing.
Because here’s the real message: you don’t have to build an identity around a task you don’t enjoy. You don’t have to turn your home into a second kitchen shift. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Pick a lane. And let that lane be the one that keeps you fed, sane, and free.
If you want to learn, I’m here. If you don’t, that’s fine too. There’s no shame in choosing the path that makes your life easier. There’s no shame in prepared meals. There’s no shame in boxed cake mix. There’s no shame in paying the ADHD tax up front. There’s no shame in admitting that cooking every day is exhausting.
The only shame is pretending otherwise.
Scored with Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.
You can put questions in the comments if you’d like. The best one I’ve ever gotten is “how do chefs do the pan flip thing without getting shit everywhere?” The answer is “we get shit everywhere until we learn to flip correctly.”
Stories That Are All True 