I like to cook, I really do. At least, in a sort of abstract, don't-like-to-get-pans-dirty kind of way. For some reason, I think that I am capable of whipping up a great meal, but I never really do. Oh, I have no problem heating things up, making some delicious Noodle-Roni or some such thing. But when it comes to making things from scratch, I just can't seem to make the time.
I will place the blame partly on two parties, namely the two I live with. One time, about 7 years ago, I made from scratch one of my German grandmother's specialties, spatzle. Spatzle is made with some very simple ingredients, namely flour and eggs. But, to make it like my grandmother, you have to stand over a large pot of boiling water and slowly knife off slivers of the dough. Then, when they are cooked, they will pop up, and you can fish them out, to repeat the process over and over again. So, I slaved over these things and took them to Hubba-hubba (then boyfriend). I was so proud as he spooned them out of the bowl I had brought them in. Then, he took a bite, and I could tell immediately that I had just spent two hours for nothing. I think he even came out and said that he didn't like them. I swore then that I was never going to try to impress him with cooking again. And what do you know, I have succeeded greatly.
I blame Mr. Personality because it seems that I just cannot concentrate on cooking when he is around. For four days out of the week, my husband does not come home until way after dinner, so it is just him and me. Bad combination. If he is not pulling out all the pots and pans, he is reaching into the silverware drawer. I know, there is nothing like home cooked food. Too bad my son will not be aware of that fact for probably quite a while.
I do salvage myself by being a pretty good baker. I enjoy baking, and I make some pretty awesome chocolate chip cookies, which (fortunately for me) my husband will take over veal piccata any day.