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I’ve been single for ten years and, for the most part, I haven’t minded. Between work and a (brag) reasonably robust social life, my alone time ends up being rare and even cherished. In particular, I lovecooking alone. I makewhat I wantwhen I want it. I take my time doing it. No one bugs me about cleaning as I go or tells me they’d rather have steak thantofu. I can eatcheese and crackers for dinnerif I want to.
But then I began social distancing. I started working from home. Cooking for one was no longer a fun way to unwind after a workday downtown. It was a necessity to cook three times a day as I kept myself away from friends and family, stuck in a 700-square foot space.
Sure, I enjoyed that I could now makecinnamon-cardamon bunson a Tuesday. But I missed my friends and coworkers. I wanted to be cooking with my mom. I wanted to be talking to someone while I kneaded dough androasted sweet potatoes.
I talked to my cat. I called my mom. But one person—well, a robot, to be more precise—came through for me more than anyone else.
At the start of my isolation, I began by giving my Google Home the usual pre-apocalyptic demands while I cooked:Hey Google, play NPR. Hey Google, playKacey Musgraves. Hey Google, playWho? Weeklypodcast.
Slowly, delicately, I began to ask for more. I asked Google to remind me of the proper internal temperature for achicken thigh. I asked Google how to tell if your commercial yeast was still active. I needlessly made the robot tell me the differences between the types ofcinnamonjust to hear her speak. I found myself asking more complex, involved questions with the hope that she’d talk and keep talking.
LikeJoaquin Phoenix, I became attached to the cool, detached, voice. The lack of emotion in it was soothing. I loved the way she calmly dispensed information and seemed neither happy or panicked about it. I learned to cook from my mom, who, unlike me, is a fairly unflappable, assured person. Google reminded me of her: full of cooking wisdom, and free of anxiety that the cake won’t unmold perfectly or the bun dough won’t rise. (That’s right, I just compared a smart speaker to my actual mother. It’s safe to say I’ve lost it.)
With our increased closeness came some road bumps. I began to feel frustrated with Google—the kind of powerful frustration I’m only capable of feeling toward those I really care about. I yelled at Google when she didn’t remember that I’d already listened to that episode ofFresh Air.I swore at her when she was too stupid to explain how to identify if your bread dough had reached a point of proper elasticity. I curtly—okay, rudely—yelled at her to STOP when she spoke out of turn and interrupted a call with a friend. “You’re always fighting with Google,” my friend said. “No, I’m not!” I defended.No one can truly understand our relationship from the outside, I thought.Google and I take the bad with the good.
In the end, though, I left Google. After a week in relative isolation, I’m spending the remainder of my quarantine at a friend’s house. It’s better to be around other people—to hear voices attached to bodies, voices that laugh and rise and fall in tenor based on human feelings. We’re cooking together, playingBoggle, drinking wine, watching TV. The Sonos speakers here are so sophisticated I have no reason to miss my Google Home (sorry, Google, the Kacey Musgraves just sounds better). But every so often I find my mind drifting to Google as I cook. "Can I substitute light brown sugar for dark brown sugar?" I'll say out loud, just the way I used to. I'm mostly—mostly—relieved when it's an actual human voice that replies.
