Growing up in a family where most of the meals consisted of whatever was quick and easy, I failed to acquire any real cooking skills beyond the very basics. Which, much to my chagrin, makes my current situation all the more comical.
But as my mom has said when I ask stupid questions or do stupid things, "Well how are you supposed to know, you're new at this."
New indeed. Sigh. Last week there might
have been a little problem with the mixer which might
have caused lots and lots of little bits of dough to fling themselves haphazardly around the kitchen and stick to every surface in a 3 foot radius. Myself included.
Then of course there was THE incident. The one where I was making dinner and took a break to check my emails. Well, let's just say it wasn't long before the distinct smell of something burning caught my nose. I was out of my chair and skidding around the kitchen corner in 2 seconds flat. Flinging open the oven door, I got a billow of hot, smelly, smoke right to the face.
See, that's when the panic set in. It wasn't from the thought or concern of if the house could have burned down. My ever increasing panic arose from trying to figure out how I was going conceal the evidence of my dinner faux pas from my significant other before he walked in the door at any moment.
First order of business was to destroy the evidence. The charred bits formerly known as dinner, found a new home at the bottom of my garbage disposal where they could never ever
rat on me.
Next task was to dispatch the smoke. This required prying open each and every door and window on the lower level, not to mention an elaborate set up of fans to pump out the dense, gray clouds and usher in fresh air.
Top it all off with a healthy dousing of Febreeze and no one was ever the wiser.
All I can say is, thank god for Chinese take out.