I have a confession to make. It’s terrible. It’s embarrassing. It’s gross.
My confession is this: I eat fast food. In fact, I eat it a lot.
I could blame my upbringing for that. After all, I grew up in the late 20th century, when televisions became baby-sitters and nature became something to visit in preserves. An entire generation of kitchen know-how was lost during that era: my grandmothers’ top-notch cooking skills never trickled down to my upwardly mobile parents, who were dazzled by the novelty of microwaves, TV dinners, and drive-throughs. As a result, I wasn’t raised in a house with home-cooked meals.
To make matters worse, I’m not a picky eater. Unlike my husband — who has certain likes and dislikes, and enjoys variety in his diet — I’ll eat anything*. And if I like it, I’ll eat it every day. Fast food makes that far too easy.
Also unlike my husband, I’m not a very enthusiastic cook. I’ll have a go at it now and then, but usually I end up making frou-frou crap like tarte tatin or schmancy sorbets — desserty things, not full meals. I don’t know why. Frankly, I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.
sturtle [dot] com 