When a friend raved about her favorite cookbook, I hoped it would be the answer to my food rut. For a while I resisted buying it, since it’s  not in paperback yet. Mama is cheap, even when it comes to books.

But I couldn’t stand the meal stagnation or the lack of inspiration, so I splurged.

I flipped through, drooling at the possibilities. I hopped to the table of contents, browsing for a direct path to dinner. I scanned the introduction, which is full of wonderful advice and ideas and…

The options so overwhelmed me I started to freak out. The pages on cooking tools reminded me that some of my measuring cups are missing, some of my spoons ought to be replaced, I have been lax in eliminating all plastic from my kitchen, and I’ve been misusing my pastry scraper for years…and I began to panic.

Deep breath. We’re just skimming. Next page.

The thoughtful section of having a well-stocked pantry had me thinking I should rearrange my cabinets, toss my spices, make lists for the next visit to the bulk bins. Of course I should! How have I not revisited the backbone of my pantry lately? I flushed with the tasks inherent in perfecting the cupboards. How exciting! Flawless cupboards! Goodness gravy, how daunting! This will take weeks! When the hell am I supposed to do all this? A five-second glance became, in my imagination, the beginning of a path up Everest, a thrilling but terrifyingly involved journey that I need to begin and complete rightthisveryminutebeforethekidsgethome.

Deep breath. I reminded myself that I didn’t have to read the whole book in one sitting, and this should be fun. The untapped potential of a new cook book. The possibilities, the excitement in preparing meals for an eager audience…and still I freaked out.

Which recipe first? If I just flip and find one I like but nobody eats, will I begin to resent the book?  Will my enthusiasm for exposing my family to new flavors and creating family favorites wane, leaving only perma-quesadilla-mentality? Will all this money be wasted? Will my previous time be wasted trying to recreate someone’s art only to find that I am alone in my appreciation? Will we get to a point where we eat nothing but burritos every night because they’re easy and cheap?

Wait, a minute. What happens if they like what I make? If I look at each page and choose an ideal recipe based on more than twenty-four collective years cooking for my three guys, and I wow my family and re-inspire my culinary passions, will I set the bar so impractically high that I’m spending hours every day making meals that are increasingly awesome and insanely challenging? Will I become one of those people who doesn’t laugh at Martha Stewart’s recipes? Will I—things are getting really scary now—actually mix the dry ingredients then the wet ingredients and combine rather than refusing to dirty more than one bowl? If I spend more than 3 hours a day on food, that’s a whole day of every week just on these recipes. My family deserves a meal spark, not a freaking full-time chef.

I rode the waves of panic, excitement, fear, hope, indignation, and exhaustion until I closed the book and took another breath.

Geez. Seems I made skimming a new cookbook into a feat of terror, obligation, and insurmountable tasks.

Why am I not surprised?