I like to eat. There was a time when I liked to cook. Not any more. The problem is, I can't seem to focus on menu planning, so each day arrives and the question "what's for dinner?" has no answer. We don't go hungry or anything; last night we ordered pizza. I think it's because I so rarely go to the supermarket. I send Marty with a list, but it's not the same as walking up and down the aisles to see what's available, what's on sale, what's new, what's fresh.
A personal chef would solve this problem. He or she would do the planning, the buying, the cooking. We'd do the fun part, the eating. I should not be complaining. When I was at the mercy of the hospital "chef," I wasn't very happy.
When we have guests, which we've been having a lot of lately, it becomes even more challenging. We can't let them starve. We do our best. Me, I'm going through the motions, but my interest in serving wonderful dinners is non-existent. I'm dinner-depressed. Do you think there's a drug for that?