So here we are.
I’m standing in my kitchen, looking at a defrosted pound of ground beef, an open jar of something that was probably sauce at one point, and the vague hope that dinner will somehow materialize if I just look at it hard enough. And I’m thinking:
"Who the hell starts a blog about cooking with ADHD... while barely managing to cook with ADHD?"
Me. I do.
Because I’m not doing this from a mountaintop of perfected systems and pristine mise en place. I’m doing this from the crossroads of executive dysfunction, parenting, and sleep deprivation. The same place you are - maybe not all at the same time all the time... but the place where your brain does laps around what you should be doing, while your body opens the fridge for the fifth time hoping something new will have spawned in there.
Meet Brain-Wife
She’s not my actual wife.
My real wife is intelligent, gorgeous, supportive, patient enough—and enough to call me on my bullshit and still love me through it. She’s amazing. Don't deserve someone this good, really.
Brain-Wife, on the other hand, is a real bitch. She’s the voice in my head that sounds like my real wife when I’m feeling insecure. She’s the one who hisses things like:
- “You forgot to defrost the meat again?”
- “How do you think you can tell people how to do shit when you can’t do shit?”
- “This blog is stupid. Nobody’s taking you seriously.”
But here’s the thing: Brain-Wife isn’t actually my wife’s voice.
It’s my own fear, using her face because it knows that’s where I’m vulnerable.
And the best part?
When Brain-Wife starts talking shit at my worst moments—telling me I can’t cook, can’t write, can’t do anything right—I get to tell her to shut the fuck up and let me cook. Because she’s me. And she doesn’t get to run the show.
Real Wife? I’d never talk to her that way. She’s too good for that, and she definitely wouldn't put up with that.
But Brain-Wife?
She’s fair game.
This Is Not a Masterclass
This is not a tidy little tutorial about macro-balanced sheet pan dinners. There are no frosted glass containers. No weekly printables. No curated mood boards.
This is a survival manual.
This is the duct-taped cookbook you write for your past self. The one who:
- Forgot to thaw the chicken
- Stared at a spice rack for 12 minutes in a fugue state
- Ate dry cereal out of a measuring cup and called it dinner
You’ve been there. I’ve been there. We’re probably gonna be there again next Tuesday.
Why Write It At All?
Because someone needs to. Because looking at other people online, nobody looks like me, and that means that there's probably other people out there thinking the same thing.
Because the only people talking about cooking online either have a staff, a sponsorship, or a goddamn kitchen island bigger than my 2005 Honda Odyssey that's missing two hubcaps. And that’s not helpful when your executive function has been MIA since breakfast and your kids are asking what’s for dinner while you’re still stuck in decision paralysis.
Because even if I don’t have it all figured out, I’ve figured out some things. Enough to make food happen on nights when everything feels impossible. Enough to dodge the shame spiral and serve up something that keeps the wheels on.
Because it turns out, you don’t need to be a perfect cook.
You just need to eat.
So What Now?
Now, we build.
We slap together systems out of duct tape, stubbornness, and 11th-hour panic.
We freeze meat in flat, stackable bricks because air is the enemy and defrost time is a lying bastard.
We plan our meals like a heist—know the exits, have a fallback, wear gloves.
We meal prep in our pajamas at 11:47pm while the dishwasher screams and our brain keeps buffering.
And when the plan falls apart?
We pivot.
You were supposed to make stir-fry, but you grabbed the baking soda instead of the cornstarch and now it smells like you're trying to gas the house.
So you make pancakes.
Because you’ve got eggs, you’ve got flour, and you’ve got just enough serotonin left to flip something golden.
Breakfast for dinner isn’t failure. It’s tactical redirection.
You were gonna try that fancy recipe, but the chicken’s still frozen solid and you forgot to buy cumin.
So you default to spaghetti.
Or pizza.
Or burgers and fries with a side of "fuck it."
This blog isn’t about being better.
It’s about being nimble - and forgiving yourself when you're not
It's about learning how to outmaneuver the chaos instead of trying to conquer it.
You’re not failing. You’re adapting.
And even on the nights you botch the plan, misread the label, or melt down in aisle four—
You can still fucking get dinner on the table.