The holidays have meant one thing to me: cooking. I love to make big, elaborate meals from scratch, preferably for twenty or more people. The table is set with all of the wedding crystal and china that spends the rest of the year collecting dust. We do it up: candles, flowers, tiny silver saltshakers, perfectly ironed cloth napkins, even place cards. The menu is always planned carefully in advance to include old favorites plus one or two new experiments. Before-dinner drinks, wines, after-dinner drinks, non-alcoholic sparkling grape juice for the kids, appetizers, two or three different meats and half a dozen desserts - all standard fare at one of our Thanksgiving dinners. Our annual day-after-Christmas brunch is another food orgy, with so many variations on French toast, bacon, muffins, and Bloody Mary's that every guest winds up in a carbohydrate-induced stupor within an hour of arriving. All of this requires hours in the kitchen, multiple trips to the supermarket, and days of cleaning, polishing, dusting, and ironing. I can make Martha Stewart look like a piker. Remembering past holidays now, I have only one thought: I must have been out of my mind.

Trying to cook with a six month-old baby at your side is like trying to drive a car with a monkey on your head. You won't remember a minute of the journey and at the end, you'll be frantic, deranged, and covered in goo. Because I'm a new mom and completely ignorant about the workings of babies, I thought that it would be 1) easy to cook while Olivia played happily in her pen nearby, and 2) an utterly charming way to spend the afternoon. Wrong on both counts. Sensing fire and sharp knives nearby, Olivia wanted in on the action. She sobbed piteously until I pulled her out of the playpen, plopped her in the high chair, and wheeled her over to the counter where I was working. As I peeled apples, she tried her best to turn the stove burners on. As I whipped cream, she grabbed magnets and papers off of the refrigerator and stuffed them into her mouth. I gave her a large plastic spoon to bang; she giddily flung it at the dog. When I bent over to retrieve the spoon, she turned a large metal colander upside down over her head. Luckily it was clean and empty and distracted her long enough for me to baste the turkey. I was frazzled and having a hard time keeping track of things, so I started setting timers to remind me to add ingredients, stir, fold, thaw and simmer. Toys were flying, things were beeping, pots were boiling over, and of course at just that moment, Olivia decided that it was time for lunch.

I made it back into the kitchen about thirty minutes later. Everything was strangely quiet. Checking the turkey, I discovered that the oven was almost cold. "The timers beeped, so I turned everything off." my husband said helpfully. Smiling appreciatively at him, I cranked the oven back on, since the turkey was still mostly raw, and tried gamely to pull the rest of the meal together. With the exception of the sweet potatoes, which were overcooked to the consistency of the Gerber version that we feed the baby, it turned out okay. But it was a mighty challenge. The old me, once serene at the stove and unflappable at the fridge, had been replaced by this crazed creature with powdered sugar in her hair and a wild look in her eye. Not only had I lost my former pleasure in cooking, I'd wrecked the kitchen and all but thrown the finished meal onto plates.

Maybe there's a woman out there who can be a great cook and a great mom at the same time. It's not me. I can't do that many things at once. The truth is, turning out the most perfect chocolate torte isn't as sweet or satisfying as munching on her pudgy little feet. That's why I'm hanging up my apron for a while. Not even Christmas dinner, just a few weeks away, can tempt me back to the cookbooks. My original plan was to prepare one of those exotic roasts that feature frilly white booties on the ends of the bones, along with some homemade eggnog ice cream. Thankfully, I've come to my senses. We're having tater tots, microwave popcorn, and root beer. You're welcome to join us - as long as you bring dessert.