Years ago, when women only a few years older than I am now announced they quit cooking, I silently judged them. I would think to myself, “How in the world do you just stop cooking?”

I get it now. They were tired — tired of chicken, tired of ground beef, tired of pork and tired of salad after salad after salad.

If a judge were to sentence me for my previous lack of culinary compassion, I would beg the court for mercy. I’d tell the judge I’m willing to eat humble pie, but that sounds like it would involve cooking.

For me, the meal planning part of cooking is far more exhausting than the meal prep, which is why I now ask others what they are making for dinner and follow suit. It’s far more fun than flipping through recipe books and has a certain game-show quality about it.

On Wednesday, I asked our youngest what she was making for dinner. Last week I copied her when she served spaghetti and meatballs. It had gotten us through the weekend but now we were down to a tiny mound of spaghetti, two meatballs and a dab of marina. I’d hate to see mealtime get ugly.

She texted: “Switching things up. Taco Wednesday, homemade salsa and queso. We usually have Taco Tuesday, but this week it’s Taco Wednesday.”

I replied that they now sell salsa in jars at the grocery.

She responded that she makes the queso as well.

And to think we’re related.

The next day, I texted our daughter-in-law asking what was for dinner.

Her reply said their oldest son was making butter chicken thighs. It sounded good, but because of our age and cholesterol concerns, we’d probably have to forgo the butter part.

When a longtime friend and neighbor, who is an excellent cook and gardener, dropped by with a bag of freshly picked green beans, I asked what she was making dinner.

She’d planned on warming up homemade zucchini quiche from the day before, but it was too hot to turn on the oven, so they were going to McDonald’s.

You never really know a person until you know their Plan B for dinner.

Perhaps I’d be more inspired in the kitchen if we freshened things up a bit. The kitchen of my dreams is from an early Martha Stewart cooking show. She was making a fall dish and a hand came up from below the counter and began removing dirty utensils.

On Friday, I asked our oldest daughter what she was making for dinner. She said she was getting ready for a dinner party for nine.

I hung up on her.

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