Recently I was flying across the Americas, seated next to an American woman. She was 40 or so, blonde and thin – it was obvious she was attractive in her day, but Father Time and childlessness left her looking haggard and wearied. Between confessing to banging her way through the men of Cancun in bathroom stalls, and how her boyfriend dumped her because he refused to deal with her mother and is now dating a Colombian au-pair, she stated flatly, “I don’t cook. I’m too busy, I have a great career, I just have no time for it.”
Looking back, I’ve met plenty of these women. There was the insufferable Jewish princess who said, “I will not cook – I will have a great career in New York City and I will hire a nanny to cook meals for my children. There’s no need for me to learn how to cook.” Or you’ll be at a girl’s place, and after a vigorous bit of sex, you tramp off her to fridge for some food. Open the door, and you see… a jar of pickles, some Nutella, and a single, solitary Ball Park frank. You didn’t even know people actually ate that shit. Her refrigerator is a testament to her inability to love.