She always brought the dinner rolls.

See: the title of my forthcoming food memoir.

We’re spending Thanksgiving at my sister-in-law’s this year, and even I had to laugh when I got the text with my contribution assignment. 

Can you please bring rolls for 12?

Do you ever have one of those moments where something so perfectly captures who you are as a human being, it’s almost downright hilarious? Like wow, yep, this is on brand.

I recently gave my website a little glow-up, but I kept getting stuck on the about page. For someone who regularly writes and shares about her life, I find it strangely difficult to write a few paragraphs about myself.

Seriously, who am I? 

Not a memorable cook, that’s for sure. In my defense, my parents both worked full time, which means I grew up on a steady diet of Taco Bell and hamburger helper. I know we ate around the table once in a blue moon, but I have far more memories of fast food than I do elaborate home-cooked meals. 

When I got married at the fresh age of 21, I knew how to make spaghetti and not much else. Fifteen years later, I know how to make a few more things, but I am still The Girl Who Gets Assigned Dinner Rolls At Thanksgiving (is it just me, or is that a great line for my about page?).

At the beginning of 2022, I set out to love cooking as a resolution of sorts. I am somewhat disappointed to tell you that I failed. Big time. Back in January, I was straight-up jazzed, stocking up on Ruth Reichl memoirs and fancy cookbooks. Forever convinced I can change my entire personality with the right books in my Amazon cart, I spent the first half of the year trying, trying, and trying again to wholeheartedly embrace a talent I do not naturally possess.

To my credit, there have been a few wins along the way. I have completely mastered exactly one recipe from one cookbook: a creamy sun-dried tomato orzo dish. I have made this pasta probably more than a dozen times, and while I have yet to attempt it without the recipe in front of me, I think I probably could. Chopped onions. Salt, pepper, minced garlic. Add the orzo. The chicken stock. While everything cooks, I slice a lemon, wash the spinach, chop the sun-dried tomatoes. Early on, I discovered that if I added Italian sausage, I could call this a meal and not a side-dish. It’s currently my favorite dinner.

That single orzo dish aside, I do not feel any more competent in the kitchen today than I felt this time last year, when I—true story!—set off the smoke alarm trying to reheat frozen pies. Despite my best efforts, I still do not feel warm and fuzzy when I walk into the kitchen. Despite the food memoirs and the cookbooks, I still have not magically morphed into a person I am not.

What a bummer. I am still the same old me. I love to eat. I hate to cook.

I guess I am thankful I have other skills?

Occasionally when I share my writing online, someone will say something to the effect of: wow, you write things I think, but don’t know how to say.

Similarly, I am learning to embrace the freedom of acknowledging that cooking is not my gifting. I can simply stand back and stare in awe at the cooks and chefs and bakers in my life who waltz around their kitchens like Joanna Gaines, slicing and dicing and kneading and chopping and mixing and draining and toasting and poaching. 

Wow, I want to tell every single one of them, you cook things I love to eat, but don’t know how to make.

I am abundantly thankful for the meal I will eat tomorrow, all of it lovingly prepared by other hands. I gladly went to the store yesterday, and swiped my debit card for my contribution.

Dearest friends and family—I’m sorry that you cannot count on me for perfectly roasted turkey or flawless mashed potatoes. Thank you for loving me anyway. Please know you can always, and I mean always, count on me for the dinner rolls.

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