The delicious joy of cooking for one

I like to think of myself as the hostess with the mostest. A combination of my Type A personality, Jewish feeder tendencies and coming of age at the peak of Nigella’s Domestic Goddess era means I can’t resist pulling out all the stops if I'm having people over. (A theme! Welcome cocktails! Ingredients sourced from far-flung corners of Waitrose!) And yet the truth is, there’s no one I’d rather cook for than myself.

It wasn’t until my late teens that I properly learnt my way around a kitchen. My mum always did all the cooking at home, so it was only when I moved 100 miles up the M1 to university that I finally had the impetus to explore. 

My early attempts were pretty dismal; raw-in-the-middle jacket potatoes stand out as a particular low point. But over time, I became more adventurous and learnt to listen to my instincts – and my cravings. I’ll never forget the night, in my shabby student kitchen in Leicester, when I Ready Steady Cook-ed myself up a Moroccan-inspired stew with no recipe and just the ingredients I happened to have to hand. It was really good, and I knew I’d never have had the confidence to make it if I was cooking for someone else.

When I’m cooking for myself, I’m at my most free: experimental, creative. I know what I like – and on the odd occasion it doesn’t work out, there’s no one to mind but me. Once I realised that, I was off – working my way through obscure vegetables from the international grocers, looking up how to recreate dishes I’d eaten in restaurants, generally having fun with it.

‘What do I really feel like eating?’ was the question I started asking myself as mealtimes approached. What flavours are calling out to me? Which textures will feel most satisfying? And, often, how can I tick these boxes in the quickest and simplest way?

Society tends to view cooking for one at best as a chore, and at worst rather tragic. ‘What’s the point?’ I often hear people say about preparing a delicious and nourishing meal just for themselves. I've always found that rather sad.

Fundamentally, I learnt to cook for basic survival, but over the years, feeding myself has become a source of joy: it’s all about pleasure, mine and mine alone. By myself in the kitchen, with only my appetite to cater for, I lean into my cravings and conjure up dishes so specific that serving them to another human being would not only feel unkind, but somewhat embarrassing. A soft-boiled egg on a bed of baked beans (cooked with fried onions and heaps of black pepper until they form a sticky mess in the pot, the way my friend Zalika taught me) with a side of steamed courgette and pak choi; cabbage stir-fried with soy sauce until it catches on the wok, over brown basmati rice with soft, creamy slithers of avocado; a fridge-forage picky plate of need-to-be-eaten odds and ends. 

My favourite post-yoga meal could pass for breakfast from a mid-market hotel on the continent: a boiled egg, toasted and buttered (sometimes Marmite-d) German rye bread, tomatoes dressed in Maldon sea salt and extra virgin olive oil, and a few slices of cheddar. Sometimes all I need is a neon splatter of sriracha or a drizzle of tongue-tingling chilli oil to turn a random bowl of bits and bobs into something sating.

When I’m cooking for myself, especially during the week, my dinners are the product of pure practicality, made to nourish and reduce waste rather than impress. And yet, almost without fail, I find them to be a complete, comforting delight. In this foodie safe space, none of the usual culinary rules apply: it's about making food that tastes good, rather than being tasteful.

Having said that, not all of my solo dinners are quite so basic, spontaneous or slapdash. Occasionally I’ll push the boat out and cook as though someone else is eating. In the early pandemic – when I had time on my hands – I’d set off on elaborate culinary missions. Scratch-made Chinese dumplings (thank you @pippyeats); chicken roasted with radish, baby gem and new potatoes, accompanied by my first-ever hollandaise (my God, that’s a lot of butter); Ottolenghi recipes… need I say more?

How often in your life are you able to create something so purely, selfishly all for you? If the answer is rarely, or even never, I highly recommend you cook yourself a solo dinner. Forget the culinary conventions, ignore everything you think you know about good taste, lean into your cravings, and cook up something that – to paraphrase the late, great, Robert Nesta Marley – satisfies your soul.