I realized that I don’t like cooking because I am an adult child of an alcoholic.
About 20 years ago, people began talking about their delicious, made-from-scratch cake and the joy they received from the cooking experience. Then social media came along, and people REALLY began gushing about their latest culinary creations.
I tried it and I didn’t enjoy it. I thought, what is wrong with me? I felt NOT normal having no interest in spending time in my kitchen.
I’m a creative person. I am a writer. I appreciate the arts. I like making things for people, but I do not like to cook. People would comment that it is strange that I do not like to cook.
“It seems like you would like to cook,” they’d say.
It’s true. It does seem like I should like to cook.
I felt this contributed to my overall sense of not being normal that I have felt my whole life.
I never connected being an adult child of an alcoholic to cooking because on the surface, what connection is there really?
Last fall when I was looking to buy my first home, my real estate agent asked me several questions about what was important to me.
When I didn’t mention anything about the kitchen of my dream home, she asked about it.
“Oh, I’m not really picky about the kitchen,” I said.
“Really?” she asked. “That is the room that most people focus on when I have this conversation.”
“Oh, well I don’t really enjoy cooking,” I said. “it’s just not an important room for me.”
And then I went on to describe the backyard of my dreams because I work hard so my dog can have a good life, you know?
“The kitchen is the heart of the home,” she said.
Then it hit me. Mind blown.
I don’t like cooking because it occurs in the kitchen.
The kitchen wasn’t the heart of my parents’ home. It was the epicenter of the tornado – the heart of the chaos.
I have terrible memories of the kitchen in my parents’ home.
When my mother was drunk, she’d be up late at night. She’d talk to herself and yell about nonsensical stuff. She’d throw utensils and plates into the sink. She’d start cooking something on the stove and then pass out, causing fires. I couldn’t sleep these nights. At all. I was too scared she’d burn the house down or so rattled by what I heard her saying, sleep wouldn’t come. I’d just pray and pray that she’d go to sleep, so I could sleep.
The kitchen is also where my parents often argued. My father would be cooking or getting ready for work. Drunk or sober, my mom would start the fights with Dad. They’d yell. My sister and I would lock ourselves in our rooms and turn the music up.
We never really had dinners together. Mom didn’t cook. If she did, she did it while drunk.
The kitchen is not a happy place in my memories.
I realized today that every time I walk into my kitchen, I am reminded that this MY kitchen in MY home in MY life. I am going to spend more time in my kitchen. I am going to try cooking more often. I’m doing to make new memories in my kitchen.
I hope you are so well in your journey today.
