The first time I splurged on a black pepper grinder, I told myself: “Because you’re worth it.” Audibly. In the Walmart spice aisle.
When it comes to what’s on my plate, I’m not your average millennial.
Being a foodie hasn’t always been easy. On top of the financial burden of buying fresh instead of canned produce or quinoa instead of ramen, I’ve always felt that there’s a stigma about people my age who enjoy things like roasting a whole chicken once a week.
During my sophomore year of high school, I brought a bagged lunch because I was getting tired of the soggy cafeteria corn dogs. As I ate my chicken salad sandwich and minded my own business, a friend sat down beside me.
“That sandwich looks like barf.”
Word to the wise: Never insult my food. I will spork you.
I cook like a middle-aged housewife. You can find me dirtying all kinds of dishes at least five nights a week. I’m proud of my talent, but every time my roommate comes in the front door and says something like “Ooh so fancy!” it makes me want to crawl into my pasta pot and become one with the penne.
I’m 20 years old and I would rather buy a big ole pack of prosciutto than a ticket to a football game. I tear up a little when I have to throw out a container of ricotta because cooking for one means that I don’t have time to give it the attention that it needs.
I’ve hidden my culinary talent from my peers because I thought it was weird. Not anymore.
I’m shouting it from the stovetop. I’m a kookie millennial.