My dad always used to say, “Ignorance is bliss.” I never fully understood what that meant until my husband burnt a grilled cheese sandwich. Twice. And set the smoke alarm off – twice – by charring both the top of the sandwich and the bottom all the while not melting the cheese in the middle.

How is this even possible, I wondered as I looked at my starving 4-year-old waiting for her dad to deliver something edible. He’s smart, talented, a go-getter, an over-achiever, and he has an MBA, and he can’t put two pieces of bread together and make a sandwich for our daughter? Really?

I thought of all of the ways that I’ve tried to help him succeed in the kitchen over the years, yet he he always fails. Come to think of it, I can’t think of any other area in which he fails. Time after time, I’ve felt so badly for him that I have rescued him from his sad culinary state. I swoop in and save the day with a perfectly toasty, perfectly melted American classic and put smiles on everyone’s faces again.

Then it hit me as I looked at the glowing grin smeared across my husband’s face. It’s the look my kids get when I “accidentally” do their homework under the inpatient guise of “helping” them find the answer. He wasn’t helpless in the kitchen. It was all a big act. He is one smart guy. It was all a part of his clever plan to receive automatic dismissal from all kitchen duties.

I began seeing the plan through his eyes. If I create a tragic disaster in the kitchen then she’ll lose all faith and hope that I’ll ever be able to make it in the kitchen. Better yet, if I break an expensive gadget or two she’ll banish me entirely.

It was easy to imagine since I believe I’m guilty of this same helpless charade when it comes to the trash. I’m not sure what it is about taking out the garbage, but I will go to great lengths to get out of it. When my husband goes away on business, I don’t worry about loneliness or losing my sanity with the kids 24/7; instead I worry about who I can bribe to take my trash out for me.

I’ve been known to “go on strike” and let the trash pile up so high it looked like an exciting game of Jenga. Moments like these cause him to call me Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout, referring to the girl in the popular Shel Silvertstein poem who would not take the garbage out.

I’ve used every excuse in the book for letting it pile up—everything from, “I’m too short,” to, “It’s just icky and gross.” I guess the blame goes two directions. In the future, my best bet is to hide my brand new Kitchen Aid or learn how to take out the trash if I expect my husband to whip up something gourmet.

Question: What chore do you hate?