While in Tasmania, I made some decisions. I decided to make noodle soup. I bumbled around the supermarket and made my friends pay for carrot, mushroom, lettuce, pork mince, eggs and chilli. Back at the hostel, I directed my kitchen hands, “Cut the carrots to yea big.” I chose a pot. I guessed the order the ingredients went into the boiling water.

And all this while, I was marvelling at my decision-making. I have never guessed my way through a meal before, let alone had kitchen hands who behaved as if I had some sort of authority. It was… quite thrilling. I was mimicking what I saw my mum do in the kitchen every day. Cooking this meal made me feel more like an adult than organising the administrative details of this holiday. Strange, eh?

Do not be fooled, though. This newfound decision-making-prowess has done nothing to change my “Kitchen Klutz” status. On that night, I exploded dried noodles onto the stove and cracked a raw egg all over the bench. My kitchen hands swooped to clean the mess without batting an eyelid.

The meal was a success, although there wasn’t enough salt.

Today, we made home-made pesto pasta. Even though I was the one who chopped the basil, crushed the pinenuts, added the cheese, sprinkled the salt and pounded it all together, Damjan was clearly the chef. “That looks right now, Joan. Now we’ll pour in the olive oil.” He made all the decisions — I was provided little more than mechanical power.

So, I have concluded that nearly all the “work” in cooking is in the decision-making.

I achieve another lifetime milestone tomorrow. It will be my first day in my post-uni related-to-my-degree full-time job. I am ascending the ranks of adulthood!

…What am I going to wear?