XOJane's Shayla Pierce reflects on a love-inspired change of heart about the kitchen.

… It wasn't just the men I dated. It was complete strangers, too. Men vying for my attention, somewhere between the standard questions of, "What's your name?" and "What's your sign?", would routinely ask, "Can you cook?" This would generate the automatic reply of "Um … no. Can you fix sh[—]?" Because if knowing her way around the kitchen is required for women, the ability to navigate Home Depot should be mandatory for men. I will gladly get in the kitchen if you build me one first.   

I didn't care how bad I was craving actual food. Instead, I went for years surviving mostly on Smart Ones, convenience store junk food, and Chinese takeout — health and personal well-being be damned. It's called feminism, people.

Despite my determined contrariness, eventually I met a man. 

And not just any man. I met a good one. One that loves me exactly the way I am and hasn't tried to change even my most despicable qualities. But there's one problem. The man loves food. A lot. He loves food and he loves me. I love him and I love food. Now I'm no mathematician, but all that seems to equal up to it being OK for me to cook for him at least occasionally.


Read Shayla Pierce's entire piece at XOJane.

The Root aims to foster and advance conversations about issues relevant to the black Diaspora by presenting a variety of opinions from all perspectives, whether or not those opinions are shared by our editorial staff.

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