I don’t cook, and I don’t care

I don’t cook .

At all.

I don’t cook, and if I try to cook I tend to  ruin/burn/get bored/set off the smoke alarm.  My mother and grandmother are great cooks and amazing bakers.  They are experts in comfort food, holiday meals, and party pleasers, but I am, well, not.

In the last couple of years my lack of prowess and experience in the kitchen has become a running joke. Instead of chopping veggies or or watching the stove, family meal after family meal I am assigned to rolling silverware and washing dishes. If I get near a boiling pot, I get strange looks. If, heaven forbid, I try to make something simple like mac n’ cheese or rice (rice!) someone swoops in to take over the job I’m probably going to screw up.

I guess I’m missing some part of my domestic gene, but it doesn’t help that I’m not trusted within 2 feet of an oven. I know I don’t have a real desire to plan and execute a fabulous meal, but I would like an acknowledgement that I can actually make pasta.  I have so many wonderful cooks and chefs around me I’ve never really had to make something semi-elaborate for myself. Lucky me.

I suck at cooking, but I’m done caring. Just feed me.




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