I'm going to a party tomorrow night and I want to take something. I could cheat and buy something (thereby ensuring that it's it at least edible) but my Donna Reed Gene won't let me. I must cook/bake something. Aye, there's the rub, as Billy Wagglestaff once said.
During my Domestic Era (1739-1923 [at least it felt that long]), I cooked dinner practically every day. And no deep-fried tater tots and Diet Dr. Pepper at my table, thank you, we had fresh vegetables and lean meats and no desert, except for birthdays. I was a Nutrition Nazi and I had pretty healthy kids as a result. But that was then.
Now. . . . .well, let's just say a peek into Little Debbie's fridge would reveal a preponderance of beer, half and half, cheese and bread; as well as leftovers from restaurants, some pretty valuable at this point, due to their antique status. In other words, I no longer cook.
So when I do decide to cook, I get nervous, because that means someone (and these are usually people I like) will be eating what I make, and my cooking skills have gotten rusty. (However, my beer drinking skills have improved, go know.) The last few times I've embarked on a culinary attempt, it's been met with little enthusiasm; neither by me nor any of my extremely tactful friends. My kids always liked my food when they were little, but they're my kids. And they were little. I rarely hang out with 4 and 6-year-olds anymore, and while some of my friends may be a little emotionally immature, they all have adult taste buds. To which taste buds, I extended my sincerest apologies.
Tomorrow, though, I will sally forth, undaunted, and try, once again, to achieve Culinary Nirvana with some bizarre recipe that sounds good to me and probably is in Debbieland (population: 1), but in Realityville, tastes like shit. Y'all should just come and live in Debbieland with me and we can dine on cream cheese/mayonnaise delight and chocolate-covered sauerkraut, washed down with a piquant '011 Miller High Life Light.