The problem with my cooking is that it tastes extraordinarily mundane.
It’s true. I am a big fan of Real Simple recipes because they have enough ingredients to make me feel like I’m actually cooking without having to roast pheasant and serve it under glass roughly eight hours later.
The problem, however, is that the food just doesn’t taste that great. And when I say “great” I mean, “It doesn’t taste like what my mom cooks.”
Every day, I get a sweet little Real Simple recipe in my email Inbox, and every day I think, “Oh! Yet another chicken recipe! Surely this one will taste better than the last 4,285 just like it!” And every week, I buy boneless, skinless chicken breasts at Aldi and chop them in some fashion or another and end up frying them in some kind of hot, popping oil that plops onto my skin and makes me bitterly angry and then I end up eating them for lunch for roughly sixty-two days or however long it takes until I either can’t handle another bite or there simply isn’t any chicken left to be eaten or it’s frozen in the back of my refrigerator.