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The mystique of a home-cooked meal
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My readers know that I often write about restaurants. Well, I'm not a food critic. I don't know enough French words to pull that off. The reason I write about food is simple: I eat out almost every dinner. To give an example of just how bad it is, I devised this column while sitting in the parking lot of the local Waffle House. Do you need any more proof that I'm a dinner-time vagabond?

Life wasn't always like this. I grew up back when dining out was a rare treat. But, as I progressed in my career, I began traveling all over the world. For 18 years, I was a frequent flyer dining more often in London and L.A. than in Georgia. It was just as easy for me to plan lunch in Barcelona, dinner in New York or snacks in Milan as it was to invite someone over to my house for a home-cooked meal. It's been hard to shake my "Let's eat out!" mentality. My wife and I joke about removing the kitchen stove and installing a drive-through window so we'll feel more at home. That's gallows humor, folks.

Let's be clear about one thing. It's not my wife's "job to cook." She's an excellent cook, but women aren't born with spatulas in their hands. I'm pretty sure I would have heard about that in biology class. My wife's a professional with little free time. Besides, the last I checked, everyone in my house has a working digestive tract. So, if you eat for yourself, you should be able to cook for yourself. By the way, some of you ladies may be tempted to "share" this portion of the column with your hubby. Well, remember we men weren't born with lawn mower handles in our hands. Use that spatula comment with caution or face the consequences.

Oh, did you know humor columnists make wonderful mealtime guests? We have hilarious stories about newspaper publishers, we can help your kids with the tricky PSAT grammar questions, and we usually get full after three, maybe four lobsters, especially if you're serving homemade pecan pie for dessert. Sure. Take your time and think it over. Until then, I'll tell my funny stories at the Waffle House, third booth on the back wall. That's my designated dinner table for July. I just wish they served lobster.

David McCoy, a notorious storyteller and proud Yellow Jacket, lives in Conyers. He can be reached at