I cooked dinner last night. I liked cooking a lot before the kids arrived -- despite the fact that my kitchen also serves as my vestibule and contains a whopping 24 inches of counter space -- because there's something satisfying about making someone a really good meal. I used to think I was pretty good, but it's clear now that five years as the family garbage disposal have widened my spectrum of things that I consider palatable. This makes me a bad choice to cook for the family because 1) my wife spent six months cultivating her palate at culinary school, and 2) my children, if left to their own devices, will eat nothing but raisins and jalapeño corn pufflings.
I was proud of the meal I made until I discovered that much of it had stuck to our non-stick skillet. Moxie came into the kitchen as I was scraping the pan (and launching new invective with every thrust), and the following conversation sums up the extent to which my skills have atrophied:
Me: "This so-called 'non-stick' pan can suck my left nut."
She: "Sweetie, that's not a non-stick pan."
Me: "Oh. Well then, I rescind the offer."