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“I read recipes the same way I read science fiction. I get to the end and think, “Well, that’s not going to happen.”

Truth. (Mad props to the person who devised the above-mentioned meme.)

Honestly, that hasn’t always been my mindset. I like to cook. More than likely, I am the one who tries a new (or crazy) recipe and brings it to a family get-together.

Picture this: An edible appetizer shaped like a Christmas tree, constructed of rye bread, pimento cheese spread, thinly-sliced roast beef, chopped romaine and cherry Tomatoes.

How about an Easter dessert with Peeps (chicks and bunnies, preferably pink and yellow), sitting on green-tinted coconut, with spring M&Ms hiding in the makeshift grass, on top of a giant chocolate chip cookie.

I can be extremely creative in the kitchen.

The only time taking a new recipe to a family event didn’t go well was when I baked kale chips ... and, well, slimy, seasoned kale is not tasty, no matter what health experts say. Cousin Ryan also never lets me hear the end of it.

Yes, I enjoy cooking.

Let me rephrase. I usually like cooking. A wave of satisfaction flows when I can grab five or six ingredients from the pantry and refrigerator, that may not look like they belong together, and whip up an old-fashioned, made-from-scratch meal.

That hasn’t been happening much lately.

Maybe, as I get older, I’m losing my kitchen magic. Maybe meal prep is mundane ... and I don’t have the time or patience for mundane.

Is it possible, as Olga Khazan writes in The Atlantic, that even though we practice something over and over, we simply may not get better at it?

Blasphemy! Am I no longer the master of my Kitchen Aid stand mixer? Are my culinary skills spiraling into oblivion faster than a potato on some ridiculously overpriced - and seldom used - veggie whirler? Am I no longer pampered with every conceivable gadget and piece of sandpaper-rough stoneware I’ve spent hundreds (translate: thousands) of dollars on?

Or, is it possible our married roles have reversed? Scott’s generally home by 5 p.m. now and I roll in after I’ve finished nightly chores at the office. Perhaps, by the time I arrive home, I’m satisfied with a piece of fruit or a salad or a bowl of granola or a handful of cheese slices and crackers, while he wants a three-course meal. I don’t need to cook because A.) It’s late; B.) I don’t feel like fixing a complete meal; or C.) Scott handled dinner options for the evening.

Always choose C, although Option D - all of the above - is also correct, for those of you keeping score at home.

Or, maybe it’s time I up my game in the kitchen, as Khazan describes in her article, titled “What It’s Like To Get Worse At Something.” Maybe my culinary concoctions have become (gasp!) boring.

It’s time for this master chef to learn a new trick or two. Shall I break out the Julia Child cookbook and make beef bourguignon? Shall I barbecue a brisket and pray there are no burnt ends ... even though I like the burnt ends? How about I shape rice-krispie treats into eggs and dip each in melted white chocolate chips, mixed with edible glitter sprinkles, forming what looks like a cracked shell?

Now that may happen.