It is somewhat complicated. Both my brother and I like to cook. Mom used to hate to cook and also said that we should learn to cook in case anything happen to her we would at least be able to cook a meal. She loved to eat in restaurants when dad was away which was most of the time and we did. That set the stage. When you grow up with restaurant made thick plate size hotcakes/pancakes with real maple syrup and Denver omelettes made to perfection or veal cutlets with killer gravy as a kid, it is difficult to appreciate when Mom boiled the potatoes and when questioned why they weren't mashed, she would point to a fork, butter, and my milk glass and say there is nothing stopping you from mashing them yourself. Today commercial pie crusts are as thick as 1/4" plywood and tough to cut. But some restaurant dishes are pure magic and a joy to be had and next to impossible to reproduce at home. A surprise bonus to me is that cooking is an escape from the world. Once inside the kitchen, the focus of turning out my best pie or ginger beef hot pot with green onions and garlic simply blocks out everything else. True therapy. And working my way though (eating) a 5 inch fresh lemon pie with real lemons on a paper thin rolled crust is a side effect I have learned to live with.