A confession.

I can't cook.

Actually scrap that. I can. I just don't like cooking.

Food to me is functional. It's the stuff you eat to stop you feeling faint and passing out. It serves a purpose. And that's about it. If I'm hungry I want to eat now. I don't want to fanny around in the kitchen for hours on end chopping, peeling, par boiling and grilling. I want to eat now. If I was left to my own devices I'd live on toast and shortbread (the stuff from Marks and Spencer preferably not the home made variety!)

Luckily my hubby enjoys cooking. He likes chopping, peeling, par boiling and grilling, and he's good at it. And he enjoys supermarket shopping. How lucky am I?

Surely the story should end there. I've got it made. I'm one of those lucky ladies who never has to lift a hand at home right? Well, yeah. Sort of.

The thing is I've always wanted to be able to cook, it just doesn't come naturally. I'm not one of those who can just throw things in a pan and make them taste and look amazing. I can barely follow the instructions on a ready meal. I'm just too impatient. In fact, I'm the person who cooked some of those ready made loaded potato skins in the plastic tray they came in and nearly poisoned myself and my boyfriend - it can't have been that bad, he married me in the end, and the same person who burnt some sausage casserole onto a LeCreuset pot so badly that it took a week and several scouring pads to clean it up again. (I was unsympathetically told that those pots are supposed to be indestructible. Meh! )

But a few things have changed recently that have made me reassess the domestic balance in the house, to think about my pathetic inability to look after myself adequately and to attempt to ensure that I'm not ashamed of my kitchen skills.

And it's with that in mind that the Domestic Dunce was born.



ETA: I have liked up with the Rattlebridge Farm link party. Pop over to see some amazing looking dishes.