And when I remarried, the standard and the achievement fell well below what it had been. My first husband was by no means love's young dream, but at least he appreciated the food. And in the years between divorce and remarriage, my standards declined. Cooking for oneself leads to decline of standards. It hardly seemed worthwhile to cook up a storm for oneself.
When Dr P appeared on the scene, it quickly became apparent that he was no gourmet. Accustomed to fending for himself, he was a ham cheese and eggs man, interspersed by occasional Chinese meals - usually an omelette, or sometimes a curry. Not vegetables, though. He was an extremely fussy eater, but was happy to fend for himself, and did not expect meals to be provided.
Once we moved in together, I had this wifely urge to do the cooking. It was neither expected or demanded, but eventually we worked out how to eat together. But my cooking standard declined, and now I am no longer the cook I was. Which is a pity.
Now, four years after Dr P's death, my standards have not risen very much. I have adopted easy solutions. Besides which, I worry about setting off the smoke alarms, which frighten me fearfully. Yes, I am a real sook. And my social life is minimal.
A couple of days ago, friends came for lunch, and I cooked up a storm. And thoroughly enjoyed it. And managed it efficiently. Nor did I burn or ruin anything. Lunch was good. and there were leftovers. Very nice too.
Perhaps all is not lost. I may yet recover both my competence and enthusiasm.