I can’t cook.
I’m a registered voter, I drive a car, I successfully manage a job and I own a healthy, mentally stable dog.
But couldn’t cook a meal to save myself.
Yes, maybe I could try cooking lessons, but if I had the time for that I would probably have time for the gym too.
OK, so maybe I could sacrifice an hour or two a week, but in this day and age does a woman really need to know how to cook?
I don’t think so.
Men don’t need to know how to cook and in this case I’m going to step right over the fence and be in the boy’s club for a little while.
If you’re wondering whether my lack of cooking skills runs in the family, you’re dead wrong.
My mum would have to be one of the best cooks I’ve come across (and yes mum, I hope I get a few extra brownies – pun intended – if you’re reading this).
Any Saturday night you will find her in culinary HQ cooking up a storm.
More often than not she’s only cooking for three but the dishes might suggest an army is expected any minute.
And sure I have helped out now again – stirring the odd soup while she’s busy or adding “a bit too much” of an ingredient because I wasn’t really listening.
My real forte here is taste-testing, but that’s about as far as my cooking skills go.
Unless you’re after some two minute noodles – I can whip you up a bowl of those in, say, two minutes.
All of which is making me a little peckish.
I’ll just go grab Dave Hollamby’s recipe (don’t miss next month’s Bella) and slip it to mum.
I have no doubt she’ll be able to whip it up in no time.
For now, I’ll just keep eating from the sidelines.