Cooking, or Lack Thereof

I has recently come to my attention that I can not cook.

At least not well.

I am a picky eater. I am not one to be satisfied with dining on tuna fish sandwiches or grilled cheese. I want a meal. And to me a good one includes a lot of ingredients.

So I watch a lot of Food TV. And I scour the internet for recipes. I buy the cookbooks that friends recommend. And I write a grocery list for umpteen items to make these ridiculous recipes that frankly I, as the mother of three, don't have the time to prepare. Let alone clean up after. I do have the best of intentions, but lately I'm lucky to make one meal out of the five that I bring home the grocery items for. And when I do manage to complete one of these ambitious meals, it tastes terrible and the kitchen looks like a hurricane hit it. Therefore, I recently declared that I can not cook, and I will not cook. Rey says I totally can cook, but not to make this crazy concoctions like the Shrimp Orzo something or other I made the other night. But he's perfectly happy eating a piece of chicken that's been grilled to within an inch of its life (hockey pucks I call them). I want more for myself--I'm worth it!

So more nights that not, we eat out. Or rather we eat in with takeout that Rey brings home. (We do not take three kids out to a restaurant every night--I am not certifiable. Not yet at least.) Dining out is the American way, right?

Well, recently it came to my attention the type of damage this is doing. The other day, in between the ungodly time period nap time and dinner time, when you can almost hear the seconds ticking because time is passing so slowly, Mason says to me, "Mommy, what's Daddy bringing home for dinner?"

It was like a knife to my heart. This boy thinks food comes from the front door, not the kitchen door.

In my defense, I wasn't always like this. I used to cook nearly every night. But after we moved back from Key West and Rey was still there, it made no sense to cook without him here, especially since the boys don't really eat what we eat so I was basically cooking for myself. (They are picky people, something we try to work on from time to time, but can't manage to work out.) When he moved back, not cooking became the status quo.

And so here we are.

I need a takeout intervention.