I am guilty of giving Mr. Nake-id a hard time about his cooking. Often when left to his own devices, he'll default to spaghetti or stir fry and I fuss about the sameness.

But here's the beauty of long association: Last night when I returned from yoga, I found Mitch embroiled in preparations for Gratin Dauphinois. (He's beeing reading Julia Child's My Life in France--a charming, exclamation-point-of-a-memoir--and newly curious about the author and the cuisine she popularized.) He found the recipe, linked above and made a few adjustments to taste. In less than an hour, I sat down to these thick, sophisticated potatoes served with quinoa bread and a broccoli, spinach, cheddar omelette.

I was reminded how lucky I am that Mitch learned to feed himself, not just with take out and frozen food, but with meals he learned watching his mom cook. (He's also fortunate that I learned to cook as a child and derive deep pleasure from it.)

So mama's: Before you send your kids into the world, make sure they can cook. It really is the gateway to a lifetime of health and gustatory delights.

 Edited: Mothers and fathers teach your sons and daughters to cook. Stereotyping, my bad.