I hate cooking, and cooking hates me. It’s a toxic relationship, and I’m only staying for the kids.

The kids. My pair of gum-chewing, freckle-faced ponytails who feel, not just free to comment on what I make for dinner, but as if it’s a moral obligation. Sauntering into the kitchen, squinting their eyes, and scrunching up their faces as they utter:

• “It’s taco salad again, isn’t it?” (quietly, with no inflection)
• “Why is this cheese so cold?” (shouted, with a pleading look to the heavens)
• “Oh, I was hoping it wasn’t those kind of noodles” (sobbing, face buried in hands)
• “Dad, can you pick us up from school tomorrow so Mom can work late, or run errands or something?”

This last comment is usually accompanied by a sheepish glance in my direction, and then an apologetic, “But Mom, you’re really good at reading.”

Thanks, Suzanne.

You’re right. I am good at reading. And your father is a good cook. I discovered this years ago, when we started dating. One of our first dates was playing mini golf, and we did that super-annoying  “You win at Putt-Putt, I make you dinner…I win, you make me dinner”(flirty giggle, flirty giggle, poke each other with our putters, Hey, you better watch it, you!, flirty giggle.)

Well, he won, and was treated to a crock pot of my signature Chicken Spaghetti, of which the main ingredient is 1 lb. of Velveeta.

“Next time, I’ll cook,” he offered, which I confidently took to mean, Oh, yeah…he wants to see me again!

Next date, he brought over all the ingredients to make Shrimp Scampi, and then did that baffling thing people do where they talk to you WHILE making dinner. Telling me about his day, asking me about mine. Hopping around the kitchen, with a tea towel over his shoulder, inviting me to “taste this…more salt?” All while preparing…the scampi.

By the by, what the hell is scampi? And while we’re at it:

• What is a roux?
• How do you “fold” in blueberries?
• What constitutes a medium sweet pepper? Can you get more specific?
• How do you know if it’s a 1/2″ strip—are you supposed to have a kitchen ruler?
• Why do you “reduce by half?” Wouldn’t it just be easier to start with less?

Why so arrogant & mysterious, Recipes?  Talk to us like human beings.

I feel like cooking takes two of my adversaries, science & math, and disguises them as something I love: books.  I love buying books, and opening to that first page, so full of promise & possibility.  But that’s when cookbooks reveal themselves for what they are: dirty, dirty liars.

The worst offenders are the Better Homes & Gardens and Betty Crocker varieties. They’re like the kind-hearted, but slightly judgmental, neighbor who seems sadly amused that you don’t have beef broth on hand, or a place to skin a chicken because your counter tops are filled with sunscreen, permission slips, Shopkins, painter’s tape, the remote control, and 1 mitten.

The most tolerable are the spiral-bound, Midwestern-proud hospital auxilliary versions that make you feel like you can do it, honey, and that Betty Jo’s Mushrooms and Lumber Jack Beef Casserole really are so simple…so attainable…so not a big deal that there’s an entire stick of butter in each recipe.

A cookbook is a book of empty promises, with tabs.  It didn’t Save me time!  I couldn’t Fix it and forget it! And it’s never Something the whole family can enjoy!  It’s Bake for 45 minutes and let cool for 5— but it’s already been an hour and I can tell it’s not even close to being done, and the girls are hangry, and I’m gonna have to start Dinner Triage and fill up bowls of miscellaneous food like chickpeas and Veggie Straws and yogurt and whichever clementines don’t taste weird.

Dinnertime can be the witching hour at our house, the pocket of our day when tempers are at their shortest and frustration at its highest. But when Digger’s there, trying to get just the right amount of smoke flavor in the chicken, or whipping up a batch of banana pancakes, asking the girls about their day, asking me about mine, hopping around the kitchen with a tea towel over his shoulder, it’s pretty great.

And on the nights he can’t join us, we make do.