Some years ago, Mary Jane Miller had a potluck at her home. I seem to recall that this was just before she left for the mission field. I was invited, but Mary Jane said that if I wanted to, I could just bring some chips or a two-liter bottle of soft drink.

That got my dander up. Mary Jane later told me that she just meant that she knew I was busy, but I took it to mean that because I was a guy, I didn't know how to cook.

I actually enjoy cooking, and -- living alone -- I have to fend for myself. My father is a great cook, and he learned from his grandfather, so I guess I have it in the genes. I don't claim to be an all-around great cook, but there are things I make of which I'm proud. Just the other night, I used some chicken thighs from the fridge and a can of diced tomatoes as the foundation for a really yummy meal. I added a few items from the supermarket, adapted a cooking technique I'd seen on a TV show, and produced a meal that was pretty darn good, if I do say so myself.

Anyway, I decided I was going to show Mary Jane. There was a recipe for dill bread I'd seen a few days earlier, and I decided I was going to bake a loaf and bring it to the potluck. Everyone was going to be so impressed!

Unfortunately, my loaf pan wasn't exactly the size called for in the recipe, and the bread oozed over the sides of the pan like some sort of mutant fungal growth. It actually tasted pretty good; it looked gruesome.

I thought about that story this week. Last Sunday, we had a potluck at church, but I'd been so busy with work, preparation for the symphony concert, our transition here at the newspaper, and other activities that I ended up bringing a couple of bags of potato chips. Then, on Monday, we had a potluck here at work to honor Kay Rose on her retirement, and I ended up going in with some of my co-workers on an order of supermarket deli fried chicken.

On Wednesday night, I had a dentist's appointment at 4 p.m. and then was scheduled for Spanish class at Motlow at 6 p.m. It was our last class and we were all supposed to bring food to share. After leaving the dentist's office, I rushed to the supermarket, thinking that I could at least whip up some homemade guacamole, one of my favorites and very easy to make.

The trouble was most of the avocados at the supermarket were soft and squishy -- well beyond ripe; they were ruined. Most of them were in such bad shape that I was afraid to chance even the few that seemed firm. So I went to the Latino food aisle and got a jar of bean dip and a jar of green salsa. I tried at least to get interesting products rather than the dominant name brands.

When I got to Spanish class, I was horrified to see how many of my classmates had made homemade Mexican dishes or purchased them from a Mexican restaurant. My little chips and dips seemed kind of pitiful by comparison, and sure enough they were left relatively untouched. I brought them to work the next morning and shared them with my co-workers.

I promise you, I can cook -- you just can't tell it lately.

John I. Carney is city editor of the Times-Gazette and covers county government and other topics. His home page is lakeneuron.com.