All I know is I’m cooking for folks tomorrow.

It was all fine until I felt questioned by my nephew who was entirely too shocked by this.

Have I mentioned I’m the baby of the family?

So many privileges. Didn’t touch laundry, food or dishes until I got married.

Or checkbooks. That’s a whole ‘nother life story.

And I’m surrounded by cooks. Cooks who have timelines. Oven schedules. Organicness happening. Practice. Skills. Talent.

I plan to just grab handles of pans and shake them around. I hope to instill confidence.

Okay, so the truth is, I’ve been seriously cooking for a year or so. And by seriously, I mean, it’s becoming second nature, not preparing holiday meals and storing them away. That would be creepy.

And the other night my eldest randomly said, “you know, mom, Beth and Heidi would be really impressed with your cooking these days.”

I have to say, that may be the nicest thing I’ve ever heard one of my kids say. ¬†Except for when they say something like, “you are ¬†the best mom I’ve ever met and you will probably get carded until you die.” They say that so many times a day, I’m almost immune to it.

But it’s still my first really real meal for friends. I already made the sweet potato casserolie thing and a gorgeous cranberry pomegranate dealie whopper…

I said that to impress you. And to remind myself.

I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggonit, people like me.


And Happy Thanksgiving.

I love you, fat pants.