My mother always was an unpredictable cook.
Only half of the things she makes are ever actually edible.
I learned how to cook as soon as I was old enough to reach the stove. I was more than happy to stop subjecting myself to my mothers food, and the almost inevitable food poisoning that came from it at least once a week.
Her “meals” are usually less like meals, more like the entire contents of our refridgerator, mixed together and stuck in a casserole dish. She calls it food, but no sane person would ever believe her.
Some of her most “creative” dishes are bacon and pickle Pie, A “casserole” involving tomatoes and pudding, and, her favorite, a pizza that includes both peanut butter and onions. And the worst part was, she thinks people actually enjoy her food.
So I have a crazy, erratic, mother who cant cook and probobly belongs in some sort of institution, but I love her.