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I am so done with cooking and I have been for a while.
It's not just the cooking.
It's the deciding what to eat (not only in the moment, but for the next four meals or so, because I'm a single girlie living alone, and recipes don't generally get made for one).
It's the going to the shops to buy ingredients.
It's doing the dishes afterwards. This, I hate the most.
It wouldn't be a stretch to say I have been in a deep, dark, damp and stinky cooking rut, and it's one I've struggled to claw myself out of more months and months and, okay, probably close to a year at this point if I'm honest.
Watch: Mia Freedman talks bad interviews and comfort food. Post continues below.
I used to be *the* meal prep gal — every Sunday, I'd whip up batches of nutritious food, divide them into containers so I was organised for the week ahead. But somewhere along the way I gave up. (I blame the lockdowns even if they were, like, three years ago now.)