By Ariel Goldberg

If I condensed my life-long cooking experiences in time, and tried to live off them, I wouldn't last more than a month. The first three weeks would involve a hang load of peanut butter and jam sandwiches, and perhaps a couple homemade hamburgers; but once those meals ran out, I would probably choose death over having to sustain myself consistently on some of the horrific meal combinations I have put together in my time.

I am not so sure I would consider myself a great cook. I think anybody I ever cooked for (and there are not many) would feel the same way. Perhaps they would even go so far as to say that cooking is to me as flying is to ostriches: we both seem to have what it takes to do it, or we should be able to do it, but we don't. The subtle difference between the ostrich and me is that my deficiency is probably due more to a lack of practice than an inherent, or genetic, incapacity.

The semi-edible meals I've created on my own, every few months or so, were manageable for two reasons: first, with gaps of time between the meals, my mind and body were able to heal and replenish while I ate take-out; second, I resorted to cooking because I was on the verge of starvation. It has always been my last option. Eating for survival lowers the standard of what one will eat.

I am a child of the modern era. With two working parents who were too busy to handle the added task of making family meals, I was raised on McDonald's and Coca-Cola, and just about every other form of quick, convenient and hassle-free food our civilization had to offer.

I remember visiting my cousins for a weekend, and the terrible disappointment of hearing my aunt announce that as a special treat, we would be having take-out while I was there. The authentic home-cooked meal I so badly desired was snatched away from me when it was so close.

But I endured, grew up, and survived, in much the same way that a hungry scavenger will sustain itself off the brittle, sun-dried remains of another animal's kill. I learned to live off food found in polystyrene packages and plastic wrappers.

The urge for life to sustain itself is incredibly strong. I can tell you that although the watering holes available to the modern man are less than ideal, they are good enough.

Things did not get better when I moved away from home. If I thought the amount of fast food I used to eat as a child was a lot, it was like a snowflake in a blizzard compared to what would overtake me as a bachelor.

Have you ever been able to walk into a place and say, "I'll have the usual, Bob," and Bob actually knows what you are talking about? McDonald's appended a special footnote for me in their training manuals, featuring a small head shot and my favorite items from their menu. The local pizza delivery service created a separate file to accommodate me, and they took a serious financial hit when I moved to the suburbs.

Perhaps it is sad, but on the bright side, it is an opportunity for me to talk about one of the things I am really good at. You see, I more than sufficiently make up for my lack of cooking prowess in sheer eating ability. My family has a joke about me that they need to strap down the refrigerator and bolt the cupboard doors shut whenever I come around to visit. I have the ability to empty both by simply strolling by—like a hurricane collecting debris in a field.

I have only known one other person who could eat more than me, at and a more rapid pace. He was my Dad, and the only reason I think he exceeded me in general food intake was because I have not yet fulfilled my food-eating capabilities. I expect to out-do him anytime now, especially since I have been implementing an intensive workout routine over the last few years. Since I graduated from university, not only have I had the free-wheeling bachelor lifestyle, but I have also had the paycheck to back it up. It's kind of like putting a jumbo jet engine into a lightweight car—highly dangerous and unpredictable. There is no telling what could happen.

Fortunately, I have managed to keep everything under control reasonably well. Eventually all fast food starts tasting like rubber. No matter what you were brought up on, or ate your whole life, rubber is just not appetizing.

You see, this is one thing about myself that doesn't fit with the image of the Incredible Engulfer. I will not eat just anything. It doesn't have to be gourmet by any stretch of the imagination, but it definitely has to be dead and liberated of any hints at its once life-like state. When I eat something, I don't want to have to think about the fact that last Tuesday it was clucking around peacefully, living out its uneventful existence.

Items such as bones, joints and tendons serve as that kind of unappealing, life-like reminder. When food is served on my plate, I want it to look like fruit innocently picked from a tree, painlessly pan-fried and seasoned for my feeding pleasure. I know it's shallow, but I don't think anybody who eats meat has any right to judge others' food preferences. I personally like the taste of chicken. Being reminded of the fact that it once lived and breathed, though, takes away any eating enjoyment for me.

Anything that remotely does not smell good is definitely out. Smell is like an inherent God-given warning sign for "Don’t eat that," and I intend to obey God’s laws. Inkomaas, or as some call it, "rotten milk," is a common part of many South Africans' diet. I don't know where the idea for it came from: probably an inability to refrigerate milk sufficiently, combined with a human capacity for survival, making do with what you have, resulting in a delicacy. Cheese is the same thing. As always, judgement of another's culture should find no place. Who knows, maybe sheep brains are better than chocolate.

There can be no doubt about it, food is here for us all to enjoy, and enjoy it I will. It is a gift from God, it is delicious, and it tastes good—just as long as I wasn't the one who cooked it.