Top Chef, I am not.

It's not fair. I am the queen of the house. I am the one who keeps the house (or arranges it to be done!), plans and cooks most meals, waits in doctor's and dentist's offices and so on. My husband likes to cook, but he usually gets home too late to get dinner started.

But, as queen, I would expect to be the best chef in my house. Mind you, I live vicariously, through the Food Network t.v. channel. I LOVE to cook. I love Rachel Ray. I love Paula Dean. I love Southern Living magazine and am always clipping recipes.

Most nights (unless its a frozen pizza night) my kid's pick away at their poached salmon in white wine sauce, or chicken medallions sauteed with garlic and olive oil served atop angel hair pasta, or maybe it's home made shrimp alfredo with fettucini....you get my drift. "How many more bites do I have to eat!" That is like a knife through my heart.

I don't like to cook if its just mac & cheese or chicken nuggets. I want to try new things and new recipes. I am all about the presentation too! Fresh basil for garnish and maybe a dish of gingered steamed carrots for color!

For the umpeenth time, my husband made dinner last night. And, for the umpteenth time the kids acted like kittens with catnip. What did he make? SLOPPY JOES.

Several years back, I used to make my marinara sauce from scratch. One day, while in a hurry, I grabbed a jar of Prego and used it. My children swooned that night at the dinner table. "Mom! This is the best spaghetti you've ever made!" Boy, did I feel like an idiot for spending all that time and effort in the kitchen.

I am either a bad cook (oh, please, like I think that's really a possibility!) or my children have bad taste. I would love to say you be the judge, but that is one thing we haven't figured out with blogging or email. Otherwise, I would send my steak au poivre as an attachment.