A Year of Letting Go

Originally posted on Scary Mommy.

Simply put. I don’t make dinner. But let me preface: I can make dinner. I have made dinner. I just don’t.

Let me back up. I grew up with my mom making homemade meals, and, despite her protests, she is a good cook. We sat around the dinner table practically every night and had meals. My grandma was the same way. She was really good. For years the whole family would gather EVERY Sunday at her house to have a home cooked meal. I wanted that for my future family. I envisioned coming home from work and prepping a gourmet dinner filled with all the food groups. We would sit around the table, talk about the day, and throw our heads back in laughter. I pictured making my husband’s favorite meals. Meals he could brag about to his friends. You know, the quintessential things white people dream about.

Then, I met my husband. His mom is a good cook. His dad is a good cook. Naturally, he became a good cook as well. In the beginning of our marriage, I tried fixing meals, but my husband was just better. And I had an epiphany — I DON’T LIKE COOKING. I don’t. I dread thinking of meals to have for the week. I despise chopping, dicing, or slicing anything. I dislike frying, sautéing, whisking, or mixing. So my husband took over. In fact, he was glad to. He enjoys cooking and thinking of meals. I threw in a feeble attempt every now and then, but in all I don’t do it. And for a while I felt bad about it. I felt like I should be doing it more. I felt like it should be my role. Not the husband’s. Those feelings…