What Burning My Dinner Taught Me About My Anxiety
I’m constantly putting out fires.
I was following one of those recipes that I’ve had memorized for years. I can practically make it with my eyes closed, my arms behind my back, and whatever other disadvantages you’d like to throw at me. I know how everything should look and smell at every stage of the cooking process. I know exactly when to add the ingredients and when to season it. It’s practically instinctual.
Overconfidence. Rookie mistake.
I stepped into the bedroom halfway through the cooking process. It just needed to simmer on medium for 20 minutes. I didn’t need to watch this. I could go hang up some clothes and multitask like an adult. All the while, my old recipe was betraying me on the cooktop.
I walked back hallway of my small, one-bedroom, rental apartment, to be greeted by a thick cloud of grey smoke. The pot was bubbling, sizzling, sputtering, and shooting heavy fumes into the air. It popped and grumbled, like a dying engine. I scrambled to slap the range hood on to high and to swing the pot off the burner without injury.
I’m not sure how many expletives I let fly because I can’t remember. But, unrestrained frenzy often results in some choice words. I ran around frantically, throwing open the bedroom window, the patio…
