Daniel Conderman 
Dear Editor,
I’m writing this from what I assume is my deathbed — and not for dramatic effect. It’s just that the hospital served lime Jell-O again, and frankly, I’ve lost the will to pull through.
For decades, folks have called me “the heart of the kitchen,” “the glue of the holidays,” and “the reason Sunday dinner tastes like home.” My grandkids — bless their freeloading hearts and terrible taste in life partners — can’t stop yammering on Facebook about my cooking like it’s some sort of sacred rite.
“Nobody makes meatloaf like Nana.”
“You can taste the love.”
No, sweetheart. What you tasted was exhaustion and mild contempt. I hated cooking. Every last soul-crushing, back-aching, grease-splattering minute of it.
That meatloaf? Cooked while muttering swear words into a can of green beans.
The Christmas cookies? Burnt, scraped, and resuscitated with a dusting of powdered sugar and lies.
That “homemade” pie crust you all put on a pedestal? Pillsbury, honey. I just crimped the edges with a fork and let you believe in miracles.
You want my famous potato salad recipe? Here it is:
- Open fridge.
- Stare at it.
- Add mayonnaise and judgment.
- Stir while fantasizing about running away to Branson.
It was never love. It was obligation. A Midwestern survival skill passed down like arthritis and passive-aggression. Feeding you was my full-time, unpaid internship in a kitchen that smelled like onions and dashed dreams.
And now, as I lie here with a blanket tucked under my armpits just right, you’re all circling like vultures with Pinterest boards, asking for “Nana’s secret recipes.”
No.
No, you charming little casserole gremlins.
You get nothing. Because here’s the truth:
Open a can.
Stir.
Lie through your teeth.
Cry in the garage.
Etch it on my tombstone if you must:
“Here Lies Gladys — She cooked because she had to, not because she wanted to. And definitely not because she loved you.”
Sincerely,
Gladys (Not Your Sweet Old Nana, More Like a Culinary Prisoner With a Nice Apron)
