I’m a bad cook. Seriously bad. By the time a woman reaches her mid-forties, she should possess a vast repertoire of go-to recipes that are repeatable success stories. I do not have this, partly because I decided to stop eating all animal products 2 years ago and so had to basically throw out all of my stand-by foods, and partly because I just don’t have that cooking gene.
I don’t improvise, for example. I follow a recipe and hope to hell it turns out as promised.
This coming weekend, in a week, we are hosting a big dinner at our house. Attending this dinner are my mother in law and my 2 stepdaughters who are foodies to the nth degree. And everyone eats meat. I just…can’t. I can do all the cleaning and I am a good kitchen assistant, but the I cannot be head cook. Nope nope nope. Luckily, Husband is good at wrangling food and slinging hash. And I’m good at looking busy.
Husband, who is the most consistently supportive man ever, reluctantly admitted last weekend that I am a terrible cook. This admission made me snort with laughter, that I actually got him to admit something unflattering about me.
Perfect attendance for me at work next week, for reasons I will explain later.