When I tell people I have barely cooked in the last year, it is as if I’ve let them in on a dirty secret like not washing my bedsheets. They look taken aback, almost disgusted, and ask how I survive. When I say I buy “ready meals”, they try to hide their horror as they picture me microwaving one of those compartmentalised plastic trays of sweet and sour chicken, and plonking myself in front of the TV.
Sure, this revelation contrasts with other aspects of my lifestyle – I eat lots of fruits, go to the gym, and take a fistful of vitamins every night. But I just don’t see the point of cooking. I’m not sure it’s much healthier or cheaper these days thanks to innovation by food manufacturers in recent years – and it’s way more time-consuming than people admit.
When I say I rely on ready meals, what I’m actually eating is often, say, a cardboard box from a supermarket “Kitchen Deli” range – filled with teriyaki chicken and sushi rice. They’re designed to be eaten fresh that day and score mostly green for nutrition in terms of their traffic-light labels. Or a meal deal which includes a box of grains and vegetables, with carrot sticks, and a coconut water. Or if I see it on offer, I bung a posh lasagne or beef chilli in the oven, which comes in a wooden tray and has minimal UPFs. These all cost me around £5 per meal.
