{"text":[[{"start":8.25,"text":"We live in the age of the extrovert, so it’s not surprising that we have come to think of cooking primarily as a social event. I mean, I get it: I am, emphatically, a feeder and few things make me happier than having family and friends around my table. But perhaps I’m getting selfish in my old age, because I’m beginning to feel that one of the things that actually does trump the pleasure of communal dining is cooking for myself. "}],[{"start":33.6,"text":"I sometimes feel that cooking loses its innocence when corrupted by the need to please others. This isn’t because pleasing others is undesirable, but because the anxiety can be crippling. And, even if this is a brutal way of putting it, it makes it about you and your need for validation, for applause even, and not about the food or, really, those for whom you’re cooking. It’s also one of the fastest routes to resentment and burnout. "}],[{"start":60.85,"text":"And while these are also my own failings — insecurity being part of the human condition, after all — no truly happy life in the kitchen is possible under such constraints. When you cook just for yourself alone you remove pressure, you remove performance anxiety and you can concentrate unselfconsciously on the process itself. As a lazy person, I do understand what people mean when they say “I can’t be bothered to cook for myself”; as a greedy person, I find it baffling. Besides, how can it make sense when the percentage of single-occupancy households in the UK is pretty well 30 per cent now? Some of the hesitancy may well be that many of those who live alone do so because they’ve been widowed, divorced or left home for the first time. In times of cataclysmic change, nothing can feel right, and yet feeding yourself is a beginning, a way to shore yourself up."}],[{"start":null,"text":""}],[{"start":112.7,"text":"And even if you don’t live alone, I remain evangelical about cooking for oneself, not least because it’s the best way to learn how to cook in the first place. If it all goes wrong, there’s no one else to witness it. Making mistakes is an essential part of learning — although it’s worth noting that they are far less likely to happen when you’re concentrating on the process and not frenziedly flash-forwarding to the result. Perhaps the hardest thing for novice cooks to learn is how to trust their own palate; this is so much easier when there’s only that one palate to please. Even when I write a recipe and send it out in the world, the seasoning, the flavours, the particular combinations, are all geared towards my taste: I have nothing else to go on. Nor do you."}],[{"start":155.55,"text":"If the idea of going it utterly solo feels too daunting, I can very much recommend Eleanor Wilkinson’s One Pot One Portion as kitchen company. For me, though, perhaps because I so often have to be precise to a fault, the joy of cooking for myself rests on not weighing or measuring anything. I think to some extent, for all of us, following a recipe can feel a bit like sitting an exam. When you cook for yourself, you can afford to take a little more of a risk. This certainly does not mean tackling anything complicated or labour-intensive. The solo suppers I yearn for when I’ve had too many days eating in company are reassuringly low-effort. They’re also an opportunity to gratify tastes others I eat with might not share. As the only fish eater in my family, and aware that even in the wider world anchovies are a divisive ingredient, they’re nearly always my first port of call. Nothing wrong, indeed everything right, with a thick slice of generously buttered bread topped with anchovy fillets but, for utter bliss, I’d suggest the following. "}],[{"start":215.8,"text":"Cook some spaghetti or linguine and, when it’s almost done, pour some olive oil into a pan, toss in some anchovies (I might use four fillets, I might use a whole tin). Stir them over the heat until they break up and seem to melt into the oil then grate or mince in some garlic along with some finely grated lemon zest (a little, if you simply want to offset the deep savouriness of the anchovy with a bit of brightness; a lot if you want out-and-out lemoniness). Just before you add the drained pasta (keeping some pasta water in reserve) stir in a loaded spoonful or three of unsalted butter, switch off the heat, swirling the pan until the butter’s melted, then tip in the drained pasta. Toss everything together, adding a little pasta water at a time, beating well to help release the starch as you go, until you have a creamily emulsified (if dismally toned) sauce. You may feel the need to squeeze in some lemon juice. "}],[{"start":272.1,"text":"Then I recommend roughly chopping a handful of parsley and mixing that in as well, leaving a little to sprinkle on top. On some days I go for finely chopped chives instead. I can also recommend a combination of fresh dill fronds or finely chopped mint (such an egregiously overlooked herb, at least in European kitchens) and toasted pine nuts. "}],[{"start":293.6,"text":"This is the joy of it all: you’re released from the need for consistency or obedience; and this is exactly how cooking feels less like work and more like play. You don’t have to do it, I just feel you owe it to yourself. "}],[{"start":307.3,"text":"Find out about our latest stories first — follow FT Weekend Magazine on X and FT Weekend on Instagram"}],[{"start":321.25,"text":""}]],"url":"https://audio.ftcn.net.cn/album/a_1777600114_3215.mp3"}