Ah, cooking. The ancient, noble tradition that’s somehow evolved from “slaughter your own food over an open flame” to “grill pre-marinated chicken breasts in a vacuum-sealed plastic bag for three hours.” The once-primal art of preparing meals has managed to transform into a tedious, soul-crushing process where you follow five-minute recipe videos that promise to make you feel like a culinary god, but instead leave you questioning every decision you’ve ever made in your life.

Let’s be real here. Cooking is a war zone. It’s you against a flaming stove, an army of blades that refuse to chop correctly, and a kitchen that smells like the aftermath of an industrial accident. You think you’re ready to make a simple dinner—maybe something elegant like a stir-fry—and next thing you know, you’re crouched on the floor, staring at a charred onion, wondering if you’ve just pissed two hours away for a handful of soggy, overcooked vegetables.

It starts with the recipe. You find some “easy” recipe online that’s supposed to take 20 minutes but turns into a three-hour battle. The first ingredient is something you can’t pronounce. “Where do I get kohlrabi? Can I substitute with a potato?” you Google. Reddit gives answers contradictory at best, people fighting in the comments and insulting each other’s mums. But there’s no time to think about that. You don’t have time for a faida over an ingredient. You just need to get this shit done.

And so, as we were saying: the recipe. What an insult to anyone who dares to think they can follow instructions. You start reading, full of optimism, trying to skip the personal bits that authors for some reason insist on sharing on a cooking website, convinced that it’s simply a matter of “throwing in a bit of this, a pinch of that, and voilà!” But by the time you reach instructions like “fold the egg whites gently into the mixture,” your mind has already entered a state of collapse. What does it mean to “fold”? What exactly is the criteria for “gently”? The recipe authors are probably sat in a Michelin-starred restaurant, laughing into their fine wine while you, in your humble kitchen, frantically Google “How to fold egg whites without causing an outbreak of salmonella.”

So you continue, forcing yourself to follow the instructions like some kind of culinary slave. Chop the carrots into matchsticks — but no matter how hard you try, they’re either too thick or too thin, or they look like a toddler’s first attempt at finger painting. The knife you thought was sharp enough is now just a blunt reminder of your shortcomings in life. It doesn’t slice. It tears. It’s not even cutting. It’s just mangling the carrots. You might as well be using a spoon. But you press on, because you’re determined to finish this.

Next, you’ve got to sweat the onions. After five minutes, they’re burnt. Now you’re the one sweating. The air is thick with the smell of regret, which coincidentally smells like the burnt end of a pot that’s going to be a bitch to scrub clean, later. But right now, the oil’s too hot, and now your kitchen looks like the aftermath of a grease fire. Charred bitterness adds depth. You throw the onions in a bowl, pretending you meant to do that. Who’s going to notice, anyway? Who’s even going to care?

Then, it’s time for the protein. Ah, the protein. Everyone’s always talking about protein. But what no one tells you is that chicken is the ultimate test of human willpower. Because you’ve got to cook it just right. Not too dry, but not undercooked. Not something that turns your mouth into a sand-pit, but not something potentially lethal, either. You’ve read a hundred recipes, all telling you different temperatures, in Celsius, Fahrenheit, in Kelvin, in Rankine. Different times. You don’t know if you’re supposed to pan-sear it, grill it, or just throw it in a pot of boiling water and close the lid on it like you just disposed of a live grenade at the last second, until it turns into something that vaguely resembles meat.

You stab it with a thermometer, but you have no idea what temperature is safe. What does 75°C even feel like in your soul? You’re trying to figure it out, but you’re second-guessing yourself. If you undercook it, you’ll get shigella and probably die. If you overcook it, you’ll end up with a piece of cardboard that even the dog wouldn’t touch. And the clock’s ticking—everyone’s starving, everyone’s watching. The pressure’s mounting. You just want to get this over with.

You throw the chicken onto the plate, hoping to salvage some dignity. The vegetables are mush. The rice is glutinous and clumped together like a sad, starchy lump of shame. Your side salad has wilted in the fridge, and the dressing you thought was “gourmet” just tastes like a vinegary nightmare. But God forbid you just order takeout. No. You cooked this. And – admitedly – you also cocked this. But the point is: you put in the effort. Your evening is down the toilet. You have to pretend it’s good.

They sit down at the table. You present it with the enthusiasm of someone who’s trying to cover up the fact they’ve committed a crime. The fork clinks against the plate as they take their first bite. It’s dry. The chicken’s dry. So dry. So dry it could be used as kindling for a fire. But you have to pretend. You have to keep it together. It’s too late now. They take another bite, eyes wide, as if they’re questioning everything in life. “I… I think I need more sauce,” they say, like they’re walking on thin ice. They know. They know it’s awful. You know it’s awful. The dog knows it’s awful. But you all sit there, pretending this is a moment of triumph, as if your failed experiment wasn’t a cry for help. The worst part is you do it again. A week later, you’re back in the kitchen, staring at the same ingredients, convinced that this time, you’ll get it right. The cycle continues. You’ll read more recipes, buy more tools, rack up more takeout bills to “balance out” your attempts at culinary greatness. And you’ll fail. You’ll burn the garlic. You’ll over-salt the soup. You’ll carbonise the bottom of the pot. You’ll accidentally make the mashed potatoes into a slurry of despair. The fire alarm will work overtime. But there’s always next time. Always next time to conquer the stove, to break free from the prison of microwave dinners and takeout boxes. One day, you tell yourself, you’ll create a meal that doesn’t leave you questioning your entire existence. One day, you’ll chop vegetables with the precision of a samurai. One day, you’ll find the perfect chicken recipe that doesn’t taste like a FIAT Uno’s tyre. But today is not that day.

Today, you’ll clean up the kitchen, scrape the burnt bits off the pan, and wonder why you ever thought cooking was anything more than a cruel, pointless charade.