I don’t love to cook.
And frankly, it doesn’t love me back. In the slightest. Sometimes I wonder if my family can taste the indifference…
I was (thisclose) to naming this post, Peanut Butter Chicken. I can already hear my family snickering, at the mere mention of the thing. Let me explain. I was stuck in a meal rut – You can relate, yes? I stumbled upon some sparkly new cuisine, sure to delight my family. I went for it.
We ate pizza that night. Whatever.
I’m good at a good many things: Mommy-ing girls, writing words, making lists, dreaming, fashion, beauty tips, rebelling against everything, and lastly, laughing so very hard at myself to make it all worthwhile. But not cooking, so much. It’s like, an irritation. A daily interruption, that feels like, “Again People?! I just fed Y’all.” Seriously man. So, I just take cooking off my balance beam. I mean, obviously I still do it because – kids and husband.
But, I give myself permission to be all, “whatever” in this area. And life goes on.
I cook the heck out of Thanksgiving dinner. So, there’s that one day a year. I have been told that I cook really well, I just don’t enjoy it. I snort in response to these kind critics because, surely they jest. But they’re serious. I think.
Shine at what you’re amazing at. Because you are pretty amazing. Take the other stuff off your beam. Or, at least stop being a mean girl to yourself about it. You are delightful. I can just tell.