"Rosemary," my husband says, "what are leeks?" He’s got a stack of cookbooks, and sticky notes with which he’s marking pages. I sigh, and when I answer it’s with an injured tone, because I know where he’s going with this. He’s headed for the grocery store. Later, he’ll make dinner. Isn’t that the livin’ end?

When we married I was between jobs, and as long as I had nothing pressing to do it seemed only fair that I make dinner each night for my hard-working husband. I didn’t even tell him that I’d never learned to cook. I just bought a cookbook and began. He was appreciative and I was pleased that I’d slipped so serenely into the role of good wife.

Besides, I discovered that I liked producing meals for my family. Food prep was a tangible expression of my love for them, and whatever life’s bumps, it was comforting to be in the kitchen as darkness fell, chopping onions, melting butter on...
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