My father didn't cook.
Hmm. That's not really accurate. He could boil shrimp so that no sauce was necessary. Oh, corn. Boiled corn on the cob was another dish he could do well. I could be wrong on this, but I think he was the one who boiled eggs in our house. Maybe he was just the designated peeler. He was also the one who grilled steaks, but he didn't grill anything else, just steaks.
I don't think it counts as cooking, but he was incredibly good at preparing salads and slicing fruit for breakfast. Every family gathering that was his job. No one else ever did it.
I know he could cook. I caught him at it when I called him while my mother was out of town. I casually asked him what he was eating for dinner (Mom always worried that Dad wouldn't feed himself while she was gone).
He answered, "Well, I'm cooking some eggs."
"How?" I inquired.
"Oh, I'm throwing in some peppers, some onions. I might even add some potatoes." Sizzling was in the background as we talked. "And peas. I've got some garden peas."
"Dad," I said in a voice that any twelve year old would understand.
"You don't put peas in an omelet."