I hate cooking.
With a passion.
Don't get me wrong: I love to eat. I just detest making what I eat. I'd prefer someone else to do it.
However, I stay at home. This means the cooking falls on me.
I'm also in charge because Tom really doesn't know how to cook. His idea of cooking is the following:
--shoving a frozen pizza in the oven
I try to cook every night. He's not a fan of leftovers. If I'm being honest, neither am I. Hence why I cook almost every night.
But some days I'm like, "I'm in no mood to cook. It's find whatever you can for dinner tonight." I'm cool with this. I can make chicken nuggets for the kids. I settle for a sandwich or a TV dinner.
My husband is like this:
He seriously acts like he's never taken care of himself before. Open the cupboard. Find something. It's SIMPLE. But he's all, "There's nothing here. What'll I eat?"
He acts hopeless, which is amusing to me, because he'll gladly die for his country. But prepare his own meal? OH NOES.
"Make a quesadilla," I'll suggest.
Sometimes he relents with a huge sigh.
Other times he's like, "Not in the mood."
I'll mention sandwiches and he makes gagging noises.
"Well, I don't care what you eat. I'm not cooking tonight," I'll snap.
Sometimes he'll just munch on some chips. "This is my dinner," he'll say dramatically.
"Awesome. Cheddar and Sour Cream chips are delish," I'll answer sweetly.
It would be fabulous if we could afford a cook. But we cannot. So it is me.
And sometimes I need a night off.
Because cooking sucks.