My fridge is filled with cooking disasters in various stages of stasis. While on the outside it is gleefully adorned with magnets and scraps of Fridge Humour, housed within its arctic interior is a bleak culinary suspended-animation hell. The bottom shelf of the fridge harbours that which I may be forced to inflict on my self sometime during the week, while the freezer has evolved into a burial ground for things too hideous to contemplate but whose resurrection could become a necessity (after I have eaten the majority of my own limbs). The rest of the fridge is home to an eccentric and useless variety of sauces, Vodka and Nail Polish.
‘Cooking’ has evolved into a strangely remorseful ritual as I am already sorry for the limp and atrophying vegetation sullenly awaiting its doom on the chopping board. When cooking for others there is the underlying fear of shame of one’s own Domestic Ineptitude to inspire a modicum of panicked effort, when cooking for myself it appears that I have absolutely no shame at all and thus am not spurred on to the attainment of even a base level of mediocrity. I have become minimal in my efforts, reflected best in my ability to eat yoghurt straight out of the container and absent-mindedly put it back in the fridge with the teaspoon still lodged within it. I have stopped seeing what is wrong with having cheese and chocolate for breakfast. It no longer strikes me as overly peculiar to eat peanut butter out of the jar. I have learned to admire cats for their ability to eat mice; there is exercise, protein and a distinct lack of washing up all in one furry little package.
Shopping for food has developed into a similarly stark affair. On the off chance I do find time and choose to spend it traipsing around the supermarket I tend to vacillate between spartan austerity and eccentric excess to the point where I have 37 varieties of Tea, a wide and eclectic range of condiments, a demented excess of kitchen sponges but no actual food. I think it is entirely possible that located in the doorway of the supermarket is some kind of psychic cloaking device that upon entry scrambles my thought process and makes it impossible for me to make rational, responsible decisions. After a harrowing experience at the registers I then trail off with an impending sense of doom, only to discover when I arrive home that it appears as though I had planned to eat honey for dinner while wearing rubber gloves followed by a clove of garlic decorated with pink highlighter pen for dessert.