What does it mean when, in the course of two weeks, someone (ah, me) accidentally breaks the following things in the kitchen: the french press carafe (dropped), the bread machine (falls off counter), a glass casserole dish with bean soup in it (dropped), and cuts herself—twice—on the same thumb in the very same day (on broken glass and a food processor blade)?I took it as a sign I should get the heck out of the kitchen. Or is that just wishful thinking?
A confession: I don’t love to cook. I never have, and I guess I take after my mother in this regard. She never loved to cook either. And here I am, with four kids with hollow legs and a very well used kitchen.
Sure, I can (and do) like making certain things, and I feel passionate about eating foods that remember where they came from, and I can’t stomach the thought of feeding junk to my family, and this I suppose is what keeps us from resorting to McDonald’s every, or any, night.
At a party last weekend, this subject of cooking came up. My friend Deb said that she has friends who, after decades of cooking and raising a family, decided they were done. Done. They weren’t going to cook anymore! They’d just eat what was leftover out of the fridge, and their husbands could cook and they’d happily eat what he made.
Oooh. My eyes lit up. I can imagine a world where I don’t cook! I happily show up to parties and eat food already prepared. I happily go to restaurants (but not McDonald’s) and eat food brought to me. I will happily let my husband cook! He doesn’t know this, but I guess he’ll find out. Good thing he likes to cook.