I may have mentioned it a time or two on this blog but… I. DON’T. COOK.

Oh sure, I warm dough. I add water. I throw a few things together to keep the family ALIVE.

But I’ve never found joy in cooking like some of my amazing foodie friends have.

I admire the hell out of these women.

Not enough to actually plan an amazing meal in their honor, but still, I wish I had their talent and passion.

So last night I got a wild hair and threw together a meatloaf. A MEATLOAF.

Who does that?

Certainly not me.

And you know what? It was… good. (In a meatloafy kind of way.) And I semi-enjoyed the process. Realizing that sent me into a slight panic attack because for years, nay, ALL OF MY LIFE I have spoken out against the joy of cooking.

So now, all of my high ideals about being a food survivalist (only cooking to keep the children alive) are being challenged. I’m slightly contemplating taking a class, for crying out loud.

It is disturbing.

I swear, I don’t even know who I am anymore.