*So* true, Celeste. I'd kill for a man who can cook. And enjoys it. Seriously.
I can cook, by the way. I just don't enjoy it. I think it comes from being a short-order cook starting at the age of six. I cooked for my brothers and mother and myself from that age on. Long, sad, already-told story. I'd have one of my brothers start up the gas stove - you had to strike a match and light the "pilot light" - scared the shite outta me - and I would do the rest. When I moved in with my Dad and stepmom at 13, she was a master, especially of Italian dishes (she's Sicilian), but she wanted no part of having anyone in the kitchen with her. Cooking was and still is her therapy. Fine by me - we couldn't stand each other, anyway.
I have a few dishes I like to make that always turn out especially good. No one, and I mean *no one* makes lasagne like I do. Even my stepmother has conceded it's the best she's ever had (hers is crap in comparison). I also make a mean chicken cacciatore - my Mom taught me, not her - Southern style chicken and dumplings, chicken parmesan, and baked salmon. But those are all special occasion type deals. To work all day and then come home and whip something like that up - I'm sorry, but no.
Fortunately, Ed is a big fan of Mexican and Chinese take-out. Those are weekly staples. I cook the other two nights he's home, then take the three he's not off - I just make something nutritious for Will and nibble on what's left over when he's flying.
The person below me is *way* too prolific in her or his responses.