I didn’t cook my first meal until I moved into a share-house with my best friends. I was 19. My dish of mince, frozen veg, dried Italian herb mix and half a bottle of tomato sauce was a raging success. The night before, my friend Bec had carefully crumbed and cooked chicken pieces straight from the freezer, so my “savoury mince” was a guaranteed win. It was on high rotation after that.
I remember feeling bloody proud of myself and I basked in the compliments. It was a complete revelation that I could cook.
Growing up, I hadn’t been allowed into the kitchen. My sister and I had a challenging relationship with our mum – the kitchen was her domain, a space where she didn’t have to parent. She had her stool, radio, smokes and a cask of wine hidden under the sink.
