I have a clear memory of a meal when I was about 15 or 16. Mom had called us to the table and we sat, waiting. She walked in, set a loaf of bread on the table, along with a block of cheese, the tub of margarine, and a bottle of salad dressing. Then she plonked our plates in front of us. Upon each lay a wedge that represented 1/4 of a head of iceberg lettuce.
We looked at her.
She looked back at us.
She shrugged. “I’m sick of making meals.”