Notes to self: Globetrotting writer Gaby Doman on the blandness of cooking

Does everyone else in the world cook, except me? I don’t know how I missed out on the fact that this is a vital part of being a grown-up.

I always thought of cooking as a hobby and that hobbies are just things people may or may not spend their free time doing; such as playing the violin, writing a blog or playing volleyball on the weekends. Cooking wasn’t one of my hobbies.

But now that I’m getting older, I see that it’s actually an essential skill and that, without it, I am seriously lacking points in the “functioning adult” scoreboard. I also don’t know how to drive, so I’m really just a toddler in adult’s clothes.

Last year, a couple of Italian boys I lived with in a little house-share in Bangkok, were horrified when I told them I didn’t cook. “You don’t cook?! Who will marry you?” they exclaimed. I sort of laughed it off in the nervous way a late twentysomething does when someone else insinuates they might die alone with only ten cats for company.

But I still didn’t learn to cook. Then I lived with two different boys who used to make me dinners and breakfasts in return for lots of praise from me and a few Thai baht to go towards the cost of buying it all.

But the older I get, the more I notice people posting up photos of really fancy dishes they’ve made — you know, with porcini mushrooms and subtle spice mixes and organic stuff. Boys now try to impress me with their signature dishes and knowledge of Michelin starred chefs I’ve never even heard of — when several years ago, they would have tried to impress me with their knowledge of obscure indie bands. I’ve got to say I couldn’t care less if a guy can cook for me or not. Home-cooked food is nice, but then so is ALL food (within reason). I like eating at restaurants and simple sandwiches and yogurts at home, too.

I don’t understand the joy people get from buying recipe books as a treat to themselves. They enjoy reading them and looking at the photos. I don’t enjoy books like this because I know I’ll never get to taste the delicious looking treats unless someone else cooks them for me.

When did this all happen? At university, everyone was the same as me; ordering pizzas or eating toast. Now, suddenly, everyone knows how to rustle up a soufflé. People own ramekins and woks and have lovely plate sets. Now, I do eat a little better than I did at university, but that just means I buy better bread, use healthier spreads and spend more time at the salad bar. I can’t think of anything duller than watching a cookery show or pawing through the pages of a recipe book. Cooking is a tedious task, and the effort that goes into it before (finding recipes, looking for ingredients and inevitably having to go to several supermarkets in search of everything), as well as after (washing up — argh!) just doesn’t seem like something I want to introduce into my life. I already have enough stress. The only thing I really wish I could cook is a poached egg.

The downside to this lack of kitchen skills is that men seem quite disappointed that I have no desire to be trapped in the kitchen, checking on things and prodding things. A guy I dated a few weeks ago told me, he made a great som tam (spicy Thai salad). I made the right impressed kind of noises and, when I saw he was waiting to hear my signature dish, told him I made a great smoothie (soya milk, peanut butter, cacao, cinnamon, banana and avocado). He looked disheartened, but gamely tried it. He didn’t like it and I was secretly pleased, because then I got to drink them both.

Cooking and its benefits are entirely lost on me, I’m afraid.