For as long as I can remember, cooking has been my stress-reliever. I don’t meditate, but I think chopping an onion is transcendent. The methodical, repetitive nature of it all.
When dinner became a source of anxiety, I chocked it up to two years of a pandemic (compounded by social unrest, political upheaval and war). I figured my disinterest in the kitchen was just fatigue from living and working through major historical events every day. I’m not a therapist, but that’s probably partially true.
At the same time, and without any real intention, I began unfollowing the myriad food-related accounts that comprise the bulk of my Instagram feed. I’d accumulated food bloggers and chefs for years, using their photos as inspiration for meals and work. But lately I’d been scrolling through the glossy, stylized images of soups and perfectly twirled bowls of bucatini, only to close the app and feel uninspired, or just bummed about what I was making for dinner that night (more likely boxed mac and cheese than from-scratch pasta).