I fully understand teamwork. Division of labor makes all kinds of sense. But somewhere along the line, the division of labor over here has become depressing. At least to me.

Of course, I am sure that my husband must get tired of mowing the lawn. But he only has to do it in the summer, and only once in awhile. And being outside, strolling behind the mower and stopping to talk with the neighbors doesn’t seem all that bad to me. Well, ok. Sweat. But otherwise.

Compare and contrast. People have to eat to survive. I hate this. I like it when I am sitting in a restaurant, looking at the menu and trying to decide between the lobster tails and the pasta with garlic and roasted vegetables. But cut to me, sitting in my kitchen with an empty icebox and a grocery list. Despair.

I have made dinner for my family just about every night for 45 years. Good God. At first, it was just me and my darling new husband, and Hamburger Helper was just fine with a couple of candles. But years passed. Children were involved. There was an acute awareness of the four food groups and the distressing amount of sugar in everything. I had to put a protein, a green thing, and a salad at everybody’s place at the table.

Things got even more challenging when I decided on a whim thirty years ago that we should become semi-vegetarian. Yup! No more red meat full of all those hormones and antibiotics! No way. Just free range, organic chicken and turkey. No fish, because I hate it. Wow. Soy protein became very popular. We ate turkey dogs. Good times.

The children are gone now. But damnation, there are still two people around here who need dinner every night! I am still the one providing it. I am completely burned out. I wake up in the morning, and dinner is hanging over me like an overdue term paper. What will it be? Can we just have scrambled eggs? Oh, wait—that was last night.

Chicken in a packet. Chicken fajitas. Oven baked. Turkey meat loaf—that was only once; we both hated it. Baked potatoes and salad? Great, but not filling. Cheese and crackers? Why not? Oh. He wants more. He actually asked me if I would consider making pot pies from scratch. I threw my Joy of Cooking at him.

So once again, I put on my coat, take my recyclable bags, and go to the store, where I roam the aisles listlessly, hoping for ideas. It gets harder every day. Maybe tonight, we’ll have


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