Tonight I didn’t bake. I didn’t shop for side dishes. I didn’t think about menus. I peeled nothing. I prepped nothing. No turkey is thawing. No pie crust is chilling.

Instead, I dozed off on the couch while watching television.

Part of my brain feels bad about that. The acculturated part that has heard about a “woman’s role” feels like maybe I’m not doing enough to keep a happy home. I can cook some, and I definitely can bake. Unfortunately for M., he’s met me post-Suzie Cupcake homemaker.

My attitude, which I’ll tell people who ask if I’m cooking tomorrow, is that I sous chef’ed aplenty for Pat. I helped year after year. I got into it. I can make gravy from scratch. I certainly can bake. I know about the sweated brow and trying to time dishes to arrive on the table at the same time, all warm and at their individual peaks. If there were something to prove, I think I proved it.

Now, I’m pretty much done with that phase. If I could have the warmth, homeyness and comfort of a simple feast without the worry and the stress of getting it right, I guess I would be fine with it. Wait, make that all the trimmings and none of the mess and fatigue.

M. probably pegged it right. By going out to dinner tomorrow night, the extra day off on Friday can be one of doing stuff and having fun. It will sure beat a needed extra day for recovery.

I’ll toast to hard workers and cooks everywhere from high above the city of SF, 36 floors above actually.