The Real Way to a Man's Heart?

I don't actually know. But as it turns out, it is not through his stomach. At least, not with my husband. If that were the case, he would have been off running (probably to the nearest bathroom or garbage can) almost a year ago. The first meal I ever cooked for Brock somehow tasted like a combo of burnt frying pan and "I Can't Believe it's Not Butter" spray. This meal was a bold (yet miserably failed) attempt of me to convince him that I did indeed possess good wife/mother material.

Luckily I've been able to display my maternal/nurturing qualities in other ways. I managed to gain a nice five lbs in just my hips, subconsciously illustrating my fertility. (Most of which lbs were frantically "elliptical machined" off in preparation for the wedding.) Last fall, I somehow found myself regularly babysitting a couple of little kids for literally $5 an hour. If this doesn't show a pure love for the little ones, I don't know what does. I've since been able to help decorate our little newlywed house with a charming mixture of repainted Craigslist gems and particle board Ikea specials. But the cooking thing? Sadly I still don't think I have it down.

Don't get me wrong here-I am not one of those girls who thinks she is too cool to cook. I don't consider it empowering to have so many other important things consuming my glamorous life that I can't possibly stoop to the low level of "kitchen". On the contrary, I love the kitchen. Probably too much. (I mean, my body automatically gravitates to the fridge every time I enter the house.)As much as I would love to put my favorite room of the house to good use, I seriously just seem to have the worst luck when it comes to mixing and heating simple ingredients. No joke- I ruined a salad last night. A salad! You can't tell me there is another human in the world who can somehow take some romaine lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and balsamic dressing and make it taste like a battery. And our nice Sunday dinner last week? I must have had a little too much fun with the sea salt grinder, because our slow simmered pork roast was so salty we each guzzled three powerades before I admitted defeat and dumped it down the trash. I think there is still a charred quesadilla nesting in a bush outside our back door. I frantically threw it out the door the other night after it (and almost the hot pad I removed it with) caught on fire. Our house smelled like a seedy motel for days.

I am not giving up though. This determination comes from a combination of a true desire to develop a useful talent and the sad realization that we can't afford sweet pork salads every night. Luckily where I lack in cooking skills, Brock makes up for in eating skills. And more importantly, kindness and politeness. And a non-existent gag reflex.