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"When my husband and I first dated, I wasn&amp;#039;t shy about confessing my foibles, domestic or otherwise. I wanted him to know what he was getting into. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m a terrible cook,&amp;quot; I told him. &amp;quot;Actually, I can&amp;#039;t cook; I never have.&amp;quot; Blame it on being single through my 40s \u2014 with late nights at work, takeout delivered in 10 minutes flat, and plenty of nearby restaurants, why turn on a stove? Randy seemed happy to cook, while I cleaned up. Then one night, he startled me with a question: &amp;quot;Why do you always leave the kitchen when it&amp;#039;s time to make dinner?&amp;quot; I paused. My single-girl excuse wouldn&amp;#039;t wash anymore. The only one I could think of \u2014 &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s my mother&amp;#039;s fault&amp;quot; \u2014 seemed lame even to me. But it felt like the truth. When I was a kid, the kitchen was her domain; neither my sister nor I was especially welcome. If we wandered in, Mom would shoo us back to our homework. Our job was to earn straight A&amp;#039;s. Whether she made matzo ball soup or mac &amp;#039;n&amp;#039; cheese from a box, she did it solo while we bent over our books. Now, apparently, my husband expected me to participate. &amp;quot;I have such good memories of everyone helping in the kitchen, growing up,&amp;quot; he told me that night, his voice softening. &amp;quot;You can be my sous chef.&amp;quot; RELATED: 8 Secrets You Should Never Keep From Your Husband I was skeptical. The few times I&amp;#039;d cooked, I&amp;#039;d been anxious, juggling pots and pans, unable to get the timing right. I also worried that my husband, used to being in charge at work, would be a martinet in the kitchen. Yet whenever I heard him prepping, I&amp;#039;d feel compelled by guilt to slink away and do a load of laundry, as if proving my worth. So the next night I asked, &amp;quot;What can I do?&amp;quot; Soon I was chopping vegetables as the smell of sizzling onions filled the kitchen. While we worked, we talked \u2014 about our days and our still-newish marriage \u2014 something we didn&amp;#039;t have the chance to do when I was off folding shirts. Yes, he bossed me around, but when you&amp;#039;re a novice, it&amp;#039;s actually handy to have someone tell you exactly how to pit an avocado. Randy assumed I didn&amp;#039;t know anything. I wasn&amp;#039;t offended, because I didn&amp;#039;t. My husband was teaching me. One night, I made chili, mostly by myself (&amp;quot;Be sure to add enough spices \u2014 a third of the jar!&amp;quot; Randy couldn&amp;#039;t help instructing, a backseat chef). When a neighbor strolled by the open window, calling out, &amp;quot;Smells good in there!&amp;quot; I glowed, and not only from the stove&amp;#039;s heat. I&amp;#039;m no longer gunning for straight A&amp;#039;s, in the kitchen or anywhere else. Instead, I take comfort and even some pride from serving admittedly basic dishes to a mate who loves me anyway, even if my efforts are occasionally undercooked. Recently, I surprised Randy with linguini and red sauce from a jar, to which I&amp;#039;d added onions, rosemary, and sausage. When he walked in, his face lit up. &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;re cooking!&amp;quot; he enthused. I lit up, too, and offered a taste, feeding him. Feeding us. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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