Confession: I Don't Cook Anymore

We didn't know when the oven broke. I haven't used it all that often since the boys left home. OK, I DO cook sometimes. But this is a no-judgment zone if you're also a fan of foraging for yourselves.

This is a pre-release sample of the book This Reimagined Empty Nest: Stories and Poems for Moms Embracing New Chapters. Paid subscribers received a preview of six full chapters (link at the bottom) before the book release.

When Did the Oven Break?

This seems to be taking a long time,” Phil said as he fiddled with the temperature knob on the oven.

“You still didn’t put that pizza in?” I said.

“I’m waiting for it to preheat.”

“Well, it’s been at least forty-five minutes, hasn’t it?”

“Yep, and I’m hungry,” he said.

“The oven doesn’t take more than fifteen minutes to reach four hundred. Something is wrong.”

We both paused for a moment, contemplating. “When did we use it last?” he said.

“Huh. I have no idea. Was it when I baked those cookies? No. That was two weeks ago.”

“I made bars last Thursday,” he said. “Come to think of it, they didn’t get done right. And something smelled weird.”

We both burst out laughing. These two empty nesters had no idea when we’d last used our oven or when it malfunctioned. We give the toaster oven and air fryer regular workouts, but the oven not so much. There was a time in our childrearing years when the oven seldom got a break. Between baking five loaves of bread each week, making meals, and baking treats, I couldn’t have gone fifteen minutes without knowing the bottom element had gone out.

Coming July 25, 2024

New Reality

When our sons lived at home, I made homemade meals, and we all sat at the table together every night. Lest you think I have some sort of food snobbery going here, the homemade meals happened mostly because I could feed a family of four on the cheap by shopping at Aldi and cooking at home. We also had a vegetable garden. I had made it my purpose to figure out how to keep the bank account balanced on Phil’s one full-time income and a little pocket change I earned from teaching piano lessons.

Without two teenagers and their friends hanging around, our eating habits—and shopping habits—have gone through a dramatic transformation. It’s been a while since we went through cereal by the truckload. The pantry doesn’t need to be so packed with overstock that jars of peanut butter or boxes of snack bars tumble onto our heads when we open the doors. There is actually space in the big freezer, and the post-shopping game of Tetris to get the goods stashed is gone. I can effortlessly slip a bucket of caramel vanilla ice cream, frozen salmon, and a box of my husband’s favorite Eggo waffles into the space.

The basement cellar has been purged of discolored jars of applesauce and stewed tomatoes—the remnants of overambitious canning sessions. No one makes enough chili or spaghetti to war- rant the abundance I stocked every year of the garden harvest,

much less two parents of grown children. Besides, fried eggs and pancakes come together much faster for a spontaneous supper than a pot of chili.

No Rules

If for no other reason, I put this all here on paper for you to read between the lines. If you missed it, get this: you have permission to do whatever you wish. If fussing over recipes and ingredients and dishes to rival Julia Child’s French cuisine revs up your joy, do it! If you hate to cook, find a different way. You’ve nurtured those babies and turned them into fine, sturdy stock. If the kitchen is closed and the oven is broken, turn off the negative self-talk and shoulds. This is your domain.

End of preview. The rest of this essay and six full chapters from This Reimagined Empty Nest are available to paid subscribers.