Decisions, Decisions

I have a confession to make.

I hate to cook. Really, I do. I bloody hate it. Unless it’s spaghetti (and even that’s an iffy), I’m bound to ruin it. I either burn dinner or myself. Heck, give me the chance and I’ll burn the pan of water while I’m at it. If it doesn’t come out charcoal-enhanced, it tends to taste like scented paper. It’s just not my forte. But I am so in love with a sustainable lifestyle that I try and try to fight my inner inclinations toward culinary destruction and battle uphill for some sort of foothold in front of the stove with the end result being a nutritious and home-cooked meal for my family.

Well, last night was my epiphany. And that is: I hate to cook. I can no longer deny my weaknesses or hide them behind last minute takeout. I can no longer look at a pan full of ruined ingredients and appease my frugal side by adding it to the compost. I can no longer watch my husband and son feign a light appetite only to gouge themselves on cold cuts before bed.

There are lots of other things I love to do! Many other “sustainably minded” contributions I could make. I’m a master with stretching resources. I love love love to garden, to trim trees, to dig in the soil. I love crocheting and I love learning how to sew. I love canning, as long as there is very little cooking involved. A long time ago, I assisted my great-granny in making quilts and someday I’d love to turn all our old, holy underwear into a patchwork for laughs. See? There are tons of other ”sustainable” things I can do for our little urban homestead. But I just think it would be in the best interest of all involved if I could pass the kitchen duties off to someone else.

So, I tried. My husband is pretty decent with a spatula and used to do most of the cooking when I worked. Perhaps, I slyly thought, if I play my cards right….

“Justin, what would it cost me to never have to cook again?” You could practically see his eyes light up the dim room. I braced myself for horror – something along the lines of sex three times a day and a weekly massage. I mean, at least the offer would be on the table but we’d certainly be renegotiating those details. Plus, I’d prefer something I could handle.

Ya know what he said?? ”Coming home to a clean house every day.”

Psha! My house isn’t dirty! Okay, well it’s not filthy. Usually. I mean if you compare it to when I worked and Zeb went to school and no one was ever home, sure it’s a tad messier. But I prefer to think we have a nice “lived-in” feel now. And since when did this bother him? I clearly remember him telling me once that it was “lived in” when I was complaining about it…awhile back…and um…come to think of it, I may have missed his implied sarcasm. Well, shit. He coulda just said so.

“Define ‘clean’.” I was expecting something laughable like shiny faucets and white-glove approved. No, just more picked up and me doing all the dishes. Hmm. Dishes, eh? That might be a deal-breaker. I have a “thing” about touching old food. I also have a “thing” about using those yellow kitchen gloves. They really creep me out how they cling to you…and what if there were a cockroach or spider or something in the finger? I should probably start referring to myself as “tactile sensitive”. Better than the “freak” I’m sure I sound like.

“And you’d cook more than just pasta every night?” He agreed that if I continued to handle the shopping and found a recipe to follow, he’d make anything that didn’t take the afternoon.

For the record, I can be a Bad Mamma Jamma when it comes to the crock pot. Something that allows me to plop everything in and completely forget about it for up to 8 hours is right up my alley. But all that bread and pizza dough and yada yada I’ve been trying to make? Screw that crap. I’m done with anything involving my beating the hell out of it prior to it cooking properly. Call me a pacifist.

So, a clean house, a full fridge, and somewhat simple recipes. And dishes. Crap, those dishes are really hurting this bargain. I mean, I already shop and find new recipes (which I in turn ruin) and picking up a bit more often won’t cost me much in time or energy, especially if it really bothers him. But dishes? I just don’t know. I mean, on one hand there would be no more cooking dinner at the very moment that my energy starts to wane. But my tactile sensitivities are pretty severe…and soggy food? Ewww.

What’s a girl to do?