Dinner Conversation

     Every afternoon around 5:00 it hits me.  It's like remembering I have a math test in an hour but not enough time to study.  You'd think I'd get better at planning after all these years, but I don't.  It's  a bad, recurring nightmare, every single evening: DINNER! AGAIN!
     I'm sick and tired of my own cooking.  When I look through recipes for inspiration, I always feel like a domestic dolt. A lot of my friends are devotees of the cooking shows on television, but I can't say it's improved anyone's repertoire.  We seem to like watching other people cook more than cooking ourselves.  The recipes looks delicious, but I am too lazy to make them.  I want a recipe that has less than five ingredients and no more than five steps, and one of the steps should be, "Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes."
     I know it was not always this way.  In my well worn copy of The Silver Palate Good Times Cookbook given to me by a dear friend, she inscribes, "To one of the best cooks in the business."  I think my talent was beaten out of me by overuse.  I'm like Nolan Ryan's pitching arm.  Okay, I was never Nolan Ryan, but I was better than I am now.
     This is not to say that I am necessarily a bad cook.  I have eight or nine regulars, and another five or six specials, and another dozen easy fill ins.  I have one or two things that my children actually request, although they always first ask if we can order Lou Malnati's.
     My husband is a good sport about it.  He's appreciative after every meal.  We have a standing joke, that everything I make is in "my top three."  But once he remarked that my fill in tacos (ground beef, package of seasoning and El Paso shells) was in my top three, and his rating system has been suspect ever since.
     Given the amount of time and energy I devote to it,  I was surprised to realize I've hardly mentioned the topic of cooking in my writing.  I found one essay about a mediocre meal I made for the night before Yom Kippur, and another essay explaining how I gave myself food poisoning.
     Luckily, my husband is a great cook, although he does make some mistakes--he thinks of recipes as "suggestions." He likes to cook a big dinner on Sunday night and I am always enthusiastic.
     Whenever possible, I give his favorite compliment.  Long ago I learned what he considered to be the highest praise: "Do you know how much we'd pay for this in a New York restaurant?"