I have just ordered a much-anticipated cookbook by Pioneer Woman, who maintains a blog from her cattle ranch in Oklahoma. You can visit her heart-warming site here.

PW’s cookbook will join the ranks of several other hopeful cookbooks lining my shelf. I crack them open about once a month, but that is about to change.

Because blogging actually did motivate me to learn a few new things about my camera, I’ve decided to use it as a weapon against another of my nemeses. For the foreseeable future, I hope to conquer one recipe per… well, I don’t know how often. We’ll just see how it goes, and I’ll post the progress here.

Julie and Julia this will not be. Whatever resemblance any of these authors may bear to Julia Child (or Meryl Streep), I bear no resemblance whatsoever to anyone who can cook, let alone anyone who can successfully follow a French recipe.

To illustrate, I offer this humbling proof: When my husband and I were first married and living in our spidery bungalow-in-an-alley, I called Mom frequently to ask for recipe advice. The low point, apparently, was when I attempted biscuits.

I called to check whether I was supposed to cut them into circles before or after baking the dough.

It was a hand-scrawled recipe. It failed to outline this step.

Mom laughed.

The biscuit episode was a while back, and I have served up some pretty mean buttermilk biscuits and gravy since that time. Even now, though, cooking calamities happen more often than I’d like to admit.

Here’s further evidence, from just last week:

Yes, that was a store-bought frozen pizza. No, I didn’t just do that for the blog.

The situation must be addressed.

The truth is that in spite of Mom’s efforts and encouragement – and my better desires – I was born without a knack for certain domestic arts. My sisters, who grew up in the same household, feed their families very capably. I am thankful to have married someone who truly likes fresh fruits and veggies (read: uncooked) and whole-grain crackers with cheese.

And the occasional deep-dish pizza, of course.

“Joy of Cooking” is baffling to me, in the same way that “Joy of Diagramming Sentences” or “Joy of Changing Sixteen Diapers a Day” might be baffling to most normal people. I realize that it is completely abnormal for a wife and stay-at-home mom not to love cooking.

My goal, then, is to discover the joy in culinary endeavors that has eluded me for so long.

I asked Annie if this new venture sounded like a recipe for disaster.

She thinks I’m cooking up trouble. 🙂

I’ll be back very soon. I can’t leave this embarrassing confession “out there” with nothing to counter it!