My love affair with food has never been straightforward. My tastes are constantly changing; I go from health kicks to binging, to literally not giving a fuck. Mainly though, cooking just frustrates me.

When I was younger, I wanted to be a chef. I loved cooking as it gave me purpose and clarity, but with age comes the startling realisation that nothing is fun, and things are hard. After actually experiencing the stress of a restaurant kitchen and turning my hobby into work, I discovered it wasn’t for me. My skin would never be tough enough to obstruct criticism, and I wanted to avoid disappointment at all costs.

I was in somewhat of a frenzy last year and cooked Sorted Food and Mob Kitchen recipes constantly (mainly because I wasn’t footing the bill), but I wasn’t enjoying myself. It was as if I was trying to use food to make myself look interesting and to show that I was good at something. If anyone were to take a look back at my Instagram, they would see these dishes and probably think they look fucking great – but most of them weren’t. Many were bland. and some were straight up nasty, but I was able to post colourful, mouth-watering photos that would convince people I was Carolann, a Good Cook.

Now as a student who should really be saving her money and cooking from scratch, I’ve developed an addiction to ordering takeaways and eating out to avoid the potential horror of creating something terrible, especially for other people. I’m not saying I can’t’ cook, I can admit that I’m still fairly good, but I need to improve. This is why I’m back here on this blog. I’m going to journal my attempt to rekindle my love of cooking. This won’t be daily because I have shit to do and I’m still going to order Rooster’s when I’m exhausted and can’t get up, but I will be sharing my triumphs and failures with you all.

Maybe next I’ll tackle baking. I’m shit at that.