Yesterday I began a series called “Unapologetic Manhood,” in which I explore a few tenets of manhood that I embrace and do not apologize for. Today I pick up where I left off yesterday. I’m discussing my aversion to cooking, a tendency I trace to my being a man.
Now, this series is partly in jest. Of course. All you cultured, masculine, high-taste chefs can simmer down (pun!). I have no contention with you. There is no bone to pick here, unless it’s from a barbeque wing, in which case I will happily pick it. That aside, I understand that many men do cook and in fact like to cook. I have no problem with that. I do not think, however, that as a man it is essential that I learn to cook or enjoy cooking. I do think that it is important that a woman cook. I think that’s part of her role. A man, though, can or can not enjoy cooking. So I see an essential distinction between the sexes. Just as I don’t think it important that I keep up a house, decorate, and other such things, I don’t think it’s important that I cook. I wasn’t made to do it. I was made to eat it. I was made to be the provider, to slaughter the beast, bring it home, and wait while my lady friend cooked it up. She wasn’t made to be the provider, and I wasn’t made to be the cook. It’s pretty simple. Of course, nowadays all the meat is pre-slaughtered and all that, leaving me in a very passive position, but that’s okay. I’ll still sit and wait for it to be cooked up, when the time strikes.
I’m unapologetic about this. I don’t want to cook. It’s not my role. So I have subscribed in my singleness to a plan of “food preparation.” I don’t cook, but I do “prepare food,” meaning, primarily, that I take it out of packaging, turn the oven dial to some temperature between 350 and 450, and come back twenty minutes later to consume the heated product. This is not my only means of food preparation, however. Do not think I am a one-trick dog. I am a two-trick dog. I also dump salsa and cheese on chips, nuke them, and eat them. So I have an extensive repertoire that I’m satisfied with. The way I look at it, I’m not eating Ramen, so I must be doing something right. After all, this is manhood. There’s no apologizing for that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a pizza to cook.