A friend of mine once described the difference between cooking before she had children and cooking after she had children.
"Well, I used to actually cook," she said wistfully. "Now I just make food."
Gone were the days of poring over recipes with ingredient lists two columns long. Instead, she explained, making food meant boiling pasta to toss with a container of store-bought pesto, throwing frozen veggie burgers in a pan and topping them with lettuce and bottled condiments.
I climbed up my ivory tower to sit in judgment.
"I love to cook," I thought smugly. "That'll never be me."
I now have a 6-month-old son at home. And I've officially become a master in the art of eating my words.
Cooking has slid down on my priority list -- most nights I'm happy if I can get something from freezer to table. But in the short time I've had to adjust to this life change, one of my greatest challenges has been to find a happy medium.
I'll admit it: Store-bought pesto is actually quite genius -- perfect for slathering atop a fillet of mild whitefish or enhancing a sandwich spread.