I am 25 and in a unexpectedly stable relationship of 5 years now. My love for cooking started when I first encountered mandatory cooking classes in early childhood education. From then on I have collected cooking utensils, recipes and general knowledge of cooking that are not of my Chinese background and traditions. I have chosen specifically to not be formally trained in cooking, as this is a passion that provides me with the feelings of relaxation and accomplishment on a daily bases and I don't want to jeopardize the incoming flow of these good feelings by placing the skills into a situation where I would be judged by it everyday. I love to eat almost anything, so I love to cook everything also. My favorite things to cook the things that are the favorites of the people eating it at the time. On Chinese New Years we would cook up a feast of ten or more dishes each symbolic of the thing we hope for the new year. Cooking really healthy and tasty meals while on our trip around the world in communal budget hostels where most things had to be improvised and having all our fellow backpackers jealous of our meals while they chomp down on 2min noodles or frozen pizzas. There isn't one particular tragedy but one circumstance which leads to cooking tragedies. It's when I am already frazzled, tired and haven't got an idea for a meal but wanting something good to eat. I would try and whip something up, it usually ends up in disaster even when it's a simple dish. As if the emotion I was experiencing at the time has transfered into the food itself.