I grew up in a food-centered household, and have created yet another one for my family. Meals together were a big part of my family life growing up, and are central now to my life with my spouse and offspring. Early in our marriage, kitchen responsibilities were shared more or less equally between my husband and myself, but at some point, I became the chief cook and kitchen manager. I’ve tried to figure out how and why this happened. Most of our couple friends seem to share the workload, but for a decade or more in this household, it’s all been on me. I’m good at it — I have a constant food inventory in my head (I also do the shopping) and good ideas about how best to deploy it. My slightly OCD nature delights in devising meals to use up dribs and drabs which would otherwise go to waste. I even get a huge charge out of emptying the fridge before leaving on vacation.
Since I allowed this evil regime to take root years ago, I have spent hours alone in the kitchen every weekend doing essential prep work, and have cooked dinner single-handedly nearly evening. I walk in the door each night to find the household males, home for hours, expecting a meal like helpless cubs waiting for the mama lioness to return from the hunt. Until recently, it suited me okay because I knew I could it all better, and because it enabled me to dictate the menu and prepare whatever I was in the mood for. But at some point in the last few years, I began to resent it. Why was all this work my responsibility? Why was I, the last person home, the one who had another hour’s work upon arrival? Well, in truth, probably because I brought about the whole stupid situation, but that didn’t stop me from being pissed off about it.
Now that I was condemned to a liquid diet for 4-6 weeks, unable to eat anything which I might prepare for my family, was I going to allow this ludicrous situation to continue? No, I was not!
Linnetontheleaf 
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