I wish I loved to cook.

I hate to cook. I usually hang my head low as I pick up my apron from the floor and tie it on and begin to think about what things I can stir together to make something edible - something at least semi-suitable for consumption. Can you even imagine living with a woman who thinks like that? It's true, whenever the sentence "Dear? What are we having to eat tonight?" is uttered, my heart sinks like a lead pipe falling from a 25 story building. It's true. I usually make a face and then walk to the kitchen like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, only slower. I open the cupboards and open the fridge and I look at everything, but nothing beckons to me as a good idea. I then sigh heavily and walk back out to the living room and say to my husband, "There's nothing."