I like to cook. It used to be one of my major hobbies. But I do NOT enjoy doing it on a daily basis. Preparing 3 meals a day for myself and my SO so that we can be healthy and save money is a drag, especially considering we both work at least 40 hours a week.
I like holding dinner parties. I like cooking on the weekends, when there’s time. I do not enjoy the everyday drudgery of hurrying home to prepare a meal, serve it at a set time, and then cleaning up. I will agree with Anaamika that there is a certain off-putting sort of tyranny in that. It generally takes 1.5-2 hours every night after work to do all that, and it starts to feel like a waste of time and just another thing to stress out about.
When I was single, I could make a giant double-batch of soup and eat it all week long. I loved that. It seemed like a huge payoff for the work. Now I share my house with a man who eats like there’s no tomorrow. That soup is gone in two days. I feel like, what should have lasted until Friday is gone by Tuesday night, and that feels depressing.
I have to take into account what he feels like eating. That was OK for awhile, but has become a drag. I used to improvise all kinds of salads and stir-frys from random fridge contents. Not anymore, because he often says he doesn’t feel like eating that sort of thing (because his mother only made meat and potatoes and, ugh, casseroles and processed shit from boxes). He will eat and cook other things now, but he wants it to be from an established recipe. Also, if he does agree to eat an improvised meal, I get a million questions about what’s in it.
There is also the problem that I really like cooking with someone. I thought living with an SO who likes to cook would mean teamwork. It doesn’t. He is terrible at that. He’s a disorganized cook (can’t figure out how to do prep tasks in an efficient order), and he has no concept of knife safety, so being his sous chef is frustrating and terrifying, because I have no idea what he’s doing half the time, and he’s waving his chef’s knife around while he’s doing it. In turn, when I cook, he is a horrible sous chef. He can’t anticipate me, doesn’t know what the names of kitchen utensils are, doesn’t remember what equipment we have, and–cardinal sin–doesn’t clean up after me as I go. I have to tell him every little thing. So we don’t cook together, which is depressing. I tried for over a year to be patient and teach him things, but I give up now. He either can’t or won’t retain what I’ve told him. So when I cook, he stands there and stares, usually standing in a spot that will impede my access to the fridge and pantry. I hate that. I want to yell at him to stop it. I have asked him politely not to, but he does it every time anyway.
I like almost everything about living with him, but cooking is definitely a very disappointing aspect of it. When we first moved in together, I thought it would be so great to have someone to cook for/with. Nope. It turned a beloved hobby into a miserable chore.