The other day I decided by George, I was going to cook dinner. Like, actually cook dinner. Not just reheat something.

You cooks out there may be scoffing, but this was major for me. One of my goals since becoming a full-time domestic engineer has been to, well, become domestic. I’ve always fixed dinner for the two of us, but more often than not that entails simple actions like boiling hot dogs, toasting cheese on bread, pulling a pizza from its plastic wrapper and popping it in the oven. Simple stuff.

So the other day I selected a recipe from a cookbook and planned to make it. I was going to make corn bacon chowder. I went to the grocery store and bought supplies we normally don’t have lying around, like onions and potatoes and garlic, and that night I went to work. I started slicing and sauteeing at 5 p.m. I realized I didn’t really know how to slice an onion. Then I realized I didn’t know how to choose the right size cutting board, because the stuff I cut up kept spilling over the edge before I was done. And it turns out I’m completely clueless about garlic. Well, I got everything in the pot in the right amounts and simmering away. The baby woke up in the middle of this and I had to put dinner on hold while I fed and changed him. Then I put him in the Baby Bjorn while I finished putting the soup together and pureeing it all in the blender. By the time the chowder was ready to eat it was past 7:30! I was worn out and starving. Then came the cleanup that, in between tending the little guy, took until 9:45.

My question to all you real cooks out there is this: IS IT WORTH IT? I got to the end of the day and seriously asked myself what I had been thinking when I opened my cookbook and set out for the grocery store. The worst thing was, after all that work, John didn’t even care for the chowder all that much. I liked it, though, and had lots of leftovers for days. But I still wonder if cooking’s worth it. Am I aiming too high? Does anyone have any good or bad stories about cooking for their family?

I was happy to read a couple different posts by friends who have been mistaken for being younger than they actually are. It’s nice to realize I’m not the only person who gets mistaken for a teenager.

Actual experiences of mine:

1.

Sitting in lobby of building where I worked at BYU during lunch break. Was reading book, probably looked quite scholarly. Was approached by fellow college-aged guy who apparently was taking a break from coaching the youth sports camp just outside. Was asked by said coach in friendly, hey-look-at-me-I’m-such-a-cool-coach-connecting-with-my-kids manner, “So, you coming to the dance tonight?”

Me, grudgingly looking up from book: “What?”

Coach: “The dance, you coming?”

Me, realizing he’s referring to the dance for his 14-year-old junior jocks: “No. Um, I just work here.”

Coach, looking confused, then awkward: “Oh. Right. Heh heh.”

I wanted to add that I was married, a college graduate, and working on my PhD in comparative literature and was tons smarter than him, Mr. Jock Pants. But I didn’t.

2.

On honeymoon, checking into romantic bed and breakfast. Maternal-type innkeeper as she ushered us to our room: “My, you don’t look old enough to be married. I thought you [looking at me] were just a schoolgirl.”

Not exactly what you want to hear on your wedding night.

3.

In orthodontics office, sitting on chair, waiting for the assistants–who, I might add, were younger than me–to start the exam.

In semi-hushed tone, Young Assistant standing two feet behind me to another Young Assistant: “Are her parents here?”

Second YA to first: “What?”

First YA, a little more loudly: “Her parents, are they here?”

Me, turning around in chair: “Hi. I’m an adult.”

Both YA, looking surprised that I could not only hear but talk: “Oops, heh heh.”

4.

In hallway at church last month after blessing our baby in sacrament meeting. Very nice elderly lady stopped me to say, “I had no idea you were old enough to have a baby! I thought you were a Young Woman!”

I was about to point out that even Young Women technically are old enough to have a baby, but decided the church hallway wasn’t an ideal place to detail the birds and the bees to her.

5.

At front door of my house, countless times, talking with salesperson.

Salesperson: “Hi, is your mom home?”

Me: “I assume so.”

[close door]

That’s what I should do, anyway. I mean, how am I supposed to know if my mom’s home? She lives in Iowa for Pete’s sake.

Well, Wes is no longer the littlest grandchild in my family. Here’s a picture of my older brother, my sister, and me with our kids in November.

Here we are again last night, with a new addition second from the left: Ethan Grant Holt.

Notice how much smaller Wesley is in the first picture, where he’s ten weeks old, than in the second one, where he’s twenty weeks. In fact, I think he’s probably the same size in the first photo as Ethan is in the second.