Pots and Pans

I don't cook. I mean, I do. Begrudgingly. I suppose the more appropriate thing to say would be that I don't like to cook. I cook because I have 3 small children and I understand I should not feed them pizza every night. Even if it is loaded with veggies. Because that does not make it acceptable seven nights a week. Who comes up with these rules?

I have two huge drawers of pots and pans. I have the pots and pans my mom suggested I buy when I first went to live on my own. Then I have the wedding pots and pans. I also have the oh crud, the wedding pots and pans are a pain in the ass to clean so let's get different ones for day to day use, but keep the wedding pots and pans in case we ever need them.

I use three of these pots and pans on a regular basis.

I attempt to act like I can cook. I rip recipes out of magazines. I have two drawers full of spices. I do make a pretty amazing butternut squash curry soup. But I don't like cooking. My mother and Kelli-girl find being in the kitchen relaxing. Something is clearly wrong with both of them. I should really make a note to have them examined by a professional.

I am terrific at take-out. When I am invited to a bridal shower and given a recipe card to write down my favorite recipe, I write down the names of several tasty take-out places and their numbers. When I lived in New York City I learned that one could have a slice of pizza delivered. A slice! I keep thinking this could be the way to make my millions in Queensbury, one slice at a time. Maybe not.

So many people have offered to cook dinner for us, to do something, to help us in some way. We keep saying no, even though we appreciate the kindness and generosity of these people. And the reason is simple: we want to keep-on-keeping-on for as long as we can. I want to go through my green binder of ripped our recipes to attempt something new or an old stand-by because it is part of our normal.