I was a latchkey kid. Every day after school I would come home to pages of my mother’s explicit instructions about how to prepare dinner, while my brother’s did after school activities or hung out with their friends in the typical double standard fashion that ruled our family. Later in the evening, I was responsible for making school and work lunches for the following day. Is it any wonder I grew to hate cooking, not to mention resent my brothers? I eventually became defiant and acted out by cooking things like psychedelic bright yellow meatloaf with a cross section of fruit loops in every ketchup layered slice. My brothers still don’t know I frequently let the dog lick their lunch sandwiches.