moose turd pie

I've made a deal with my husband that we've never formally negotiated. Since he has the fulltime job with benefits, I, writing part-time, am the go-to gal for almost all of the domestic support. That's house-cleaning, laundry, childcare, room-organizing, shopping, bill-paying and cooking, although he washes dishes, is an awesome dad, and rakes the yard. I don't blame him -- most of the time -- because as we both know, I don't want to trade places. We're both grateful that he has a good job, and that mine is now flexible enough to accomodate being at home, most of the time, for the kids. After working fulltime for more than 20 years, I appreciate my relative freedom. There's not much Betty Friedan material here, when you really think it over.
However. Last night I caught myself making my spouse the most execrable dinner yet: a kind of onion-y, peppery tofu concoction that had way too much tumeric. And it suddenly reminded me of that story (told wonderfully by Bay Area story-teller Joel Ben Izzy) about the aspiring logger who arrives at his camp only to be handed an apron and told that he has to cook, instead of do the manly work out in the woods, until someone complains. And no one ever complains. His ploy, ultimately, is to hunt down a huge, steaming moose turd and cook it into a pie. But even that is consumed with apparent relish, because no one else wants the apron.
I really hate the apron. Domestic drudgery is domestic drudgery, mommy-brain or not. I've never mastered cooking, and it only makes it worse that I had all these visions, starting out, of preparing wholesome and delicious dinners in my kitchen for my grateful family. So instead I'm doing more and more takeout complemented by occasional subversive tofu. Does this mean it's time to renegotiate the deal?