My dad was the one who did the cooking in my family when I was growing up.  Part of it was that he was already in his 30s when he got married, and had learned to cook for himself when he was living on his own in Seattle — the quintessential bachelor.  My mom, on the other hand, lived either at school or at home almost her entire adult life until she got married.  She hardly even had to learn to cook, let alone cook for herself.

Perhaps because of that, my mom was a really awful cook.  She cooked our meals for a little bit when I was a kid, and perhaps as a result, there are a lot of things I won’t eat now as an adult — things she made (or, more appropriately, things she made a mess of) when I was a kid.  For instance, I had dry, overcooked chicken so often that I’m really not a big fan of it now, and I can’t look at a green bean or pea without seeing the wrinkled, over-microwaved veggies she’d serve us.

Luckily for us, my dad took over the cooking by the time I was in my early teens.  He was a fabulous cook, so good you’d swear he’d gone to a Seattle cooking school back when he was still on his own.  He hadn’t attended any cooking schools, though — he just had a natural talent for cooking.

My husband and I are kind of the same way.  I’m not a bad cook, but I don’t really care for it, whereas my husband enjoys it.  Our kids will most likely remember his cooking very fondly, just as I do my father’s!

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