Imagine a life where you come home, pour yourself a glass of wine, put your feet up, and thirty minutes later hear "dinner's ready, lovergirl". (Either that or the sound of the kitchen smoke detector jarring you from your after-work siesta). A life where when your kid's teacher asks what you are bringing to the potluck you say "I don't know, I'll have to ask my husband." A life without the unpredictability of that old electric stove, without the frustration of allthericestickingtothewoodenspoon, without the trickle of tofu water down your sleeve after you open the container.
This is the life of a bitch that stopped cooking.
This is the life of a bitch that stopped cooking.
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