It didn't take me long after getting back to New Zealand to realise that I don't love cooking as much as I thought I did. Apparently, I just love the praise that comes with cooking – and when it's just me, there's not a whole lot of praise*.
What this means is that I've not really been cooking much over the last few weeks. I've been heating. And assembling. And making do. And eating odd assortments of food at odd times (apple and blue cheese for dinner, anyone?)
This has been absolutely fine, by the way. I'm not complaining. Just letting you all know my frame of mind. It has been making me feel awfully guilty, though – after all, cooking is my thing! If I'm not bothering to cook, what sort of failure am I?
Over the weekend, though, I had to cook. I went to a potluck dinner** on Saturday night, and I didn't think store-bought soup would go down well there. Then on Sunday I had my family over for Father's Day, and "Happy Father's Day! Here's a cheese sandwich," is just a bit mean, really, isn't it?
The good news is that I got back into it very quickly, made not one but two meals successfully, and have since rediscovered how much fun cooking is. I've started off slow this week – some broccoli and blue cheese soup here, a bit of risotto there – but over the coming weeks I'm looking forward to getting adventurous again, and cooking things like this. And this. And this.
And then eating them, of course.
*Sweetie, this is delicious! You're so clever! Just doesn't seem so awesome when you're saying it to yourself.
**This made me feel terribly grown up. My parents always used to go to potluck dinners when I was little. When I look back, that's almost all I remember – my parents taking off every weekend to potlucks, tupperware and Glad Wrap covered bowls flying everywhere. Potluck dinners are for grown ups.