Actually, the cooking itself isn’t the problem. I love to cook. It’s the people who eat what I cook.
My son would rather stick large-gauge needles in his eyeballs than eat fish. But he loves porkchops.
My oldest daughter hates porkchops. She loves — you guessed it — fish.
My second daughter hasn’t eaten my cooking in about a year, ever since she got a job and could buy her own damn food. She only eats things that come in a paper sack from young people in hats and aprons saying, “Thank you! Come again!” I’ve tried saying that. She still won’t eat my cooking.
My husband will eat anything, as long as it involves a giant hunk of beef. He once ate a 32-ounce steak. He’ll tell me, “Let’s eat lots of fish! It’s good for us.” Then, as I serve up a tasty (blech) fried catfish fillet, he’ll say, “I’m tired of fish. Let’s go get pizza.” He won’t eat anything that’s easy, or any sort of comfort food from childhood (what did you do to him as a kid, Patty?) — no meat loaf, stew, tuna cassarole, spaghetti (his mom’s is too perfect; what a suck-up).
I swear, I’m not a bad cook. The people I cook for are just bad eaters.