At about the age of 12, my mother gave up cooking, my father would not attempt it and me and my brother never thought to learn. The older siblings were out of the house so, we were always kind of on our own for dinner. You would never see us sit at the table as a family after that point, unless it was a special occasions. Never would you smell stuffing on the stove or ham in the oven. In our house it was more like, “Pizza’s HERE!” or “What do you want, hot dog or hamburger?”
I have never held this against my parents. They had five children and I was the youngest of them all. Not to mention the house was small and the kitchen was tiny. If I were them, I would be tried of cooking too. But it did lead to a very unhealthy lifestyle of myself and those who still lived at home. It wasn’t until I was 24, when that began to change.
I finally decided to get out on “my own” and move to Portland and freeload off my sister and her wife for six months. A couple weeks into my stay they gave me a gift, a cookbook. The Can’t Cook Book. They must have grown tired of seeing me eat quesadillas and peanut butter sandwiches on a daily bases.
At first I was like, “Wow, thanks guys…” Thinking to myself, “seriously, you call this a gift?” But, after looking at the colorful pages and quick easy tips, I gave it a go.