All my life, I have been a terrible cook. I am not a foodie, and if I could get by eating Kraft dinner with chips on top for every meal for the rest of my life, I would totally do it. When I lived alone, I survived on spaghetti, white rice, bagels, and cheese slices (oh those Kraft guys owe me big).
I once set a stove on fire by boiling water. I was bad, people, bad.
Then we went and had kids, and eventually I was shamed by the internet into occasionally preparing vegetables. I bought some cookbooks and tried a couple of new things. The Captain’s allergies forced me to make a lot of things at home that I would have previously bought at a store.
A few years ago I even put together a monthly meal plan. With side dishes and everything. I’ve developed the confidence to mess around with recipes, to try new things, to make meals. But I can see that actual dishes are being assembled here, and I’m getting better all the time.
I wouldn’t say I’m a chef or anything, but I could probably pass these days for a short-order cook. If Sir Monkeypants ever gets laid off, I could probably get a job at Swiss Chalet, say, or maybe even East Side Marios as a stretch goal.
Last year at Christmas, Sir Monkeypants was complaining that I don’t pursue my hobbies anymore, and I pointed out to him that I have been forced into a new hobby called “Feeding the Family.” My gift wish list these days breaks into three categories — books, Etsy items, and kitchen stuff. I really want devices and cookbooks and cool gadgets that will make my life as a food preparer easier. It’s my thing now, like it or not.
Oh sure, they don’t usually (…um, often) eat the stuff I make. But you know, I always like it. And I feel something when I set the table and sit down to a delicious full meal that I made myself…I think it’s called pride.
God, I sound like a 1930’s edition of Good Housekeeping magazine, don’t I?