Envy

Every weekday, I sit down at my desk and begin this morning routine (or mourning routine, depending on how you look at it). One part of this routine includes checking a New Yorker's blog. She's very funny and she writes well.

I live a good life. I enjoy my work (usually). I have super friends. I have a great awesome adorable sweet brilliant tough husband who can leap small buildings in a single bound (see honey, I say nice things about you). I have a very nice home (which is in a state of carpet upheaval). I have so much to be thankful for - and I am. But when I read this girl's blog I feel jealous and bad about myself all at once. She cooks. She has been married for less than a year, but she cooks more than any woman I have ever known. And here's the sick part - she enjoys it. I read about her chicken marsala and her pineapple upsidedown cake and suddenly I realize that fixing hamburger helper for supper cannot be classified as "cooking". Do people fix meals that don't come in boxes? Do all the really 'good wives' cook meals with more than 5 ingredients? Am I delinquent? Is my husband malnourished and underfed? I wish that I had the gumption at 5:00 after a long day at work to chop up stuff, saute things, roast chickens and glaze desserts. I would like to believe that if I didn't have this thing called a fulltime job that I, too, would be at home, preparing gourmet meals for hubby. I would like to believe that I have that ability and desire in me and my daily grind just sucks the wind right out of my cooking sails. I would like to believe that I could cook something worth telling you about in word and in pictures.

But in truth, life as I know it now means I get home and stare into my fridge and pantry with the same lost look I think many of you have. And for now, reading about the delicious food this other gal makes is good enough for me.