I can cook. I’ve mentioned that before on here, I’m sure. But I tend not to cook properly. I’ve also mentioned that before on here. I’m sure you all care. I’ve probably said that too (I have).
But there are little things I do that may well make me mental, and I’m of the thinking that others do it too. Because they just have to. I can’t be alone in this.
Say, for example, I’m making super noodles. Because that’s what I made today. I say ‘made’ as if there’s any effort or ability or thought involved, but hey. I know it’s shit. It’s empty calories, nothing more. More nutritional value (and flavour) in a puddle.
But then I throw in some bits. Some veg. Some spices. A bit of chicken. And suddenly I can pretend to myself I’m actually cooking something worthwhile, and the feeling of shame that comes with being 28 (I’m 28) and making super noodles (for tea when you’re 28) melts away.
Like when you add a little bit of something adult, like – again – spices on toast. Or maybe you put a bit of tomato on your cheese and toast and pretend it’s a mini pizza.
Or when you put beans in your coffee to turn it into a breakfast drink.
I might have made that one up.
Or when you put everything you possibly can on a slice of Ryvita because why not eh? It’s healthy, it can’t be bad to put deep fried heroin on top of the little rye bastard.
I need someone to look after me.