Okay. Death might be a little harsh.
More like a booboo.
I am not a cook. I am a heater-upper. I am a make-reservations-er. I am a get-takeout-er. Luckily, my husband isn't too picky and just cares that he gets to eat. Usually, when I get home from work, I'm tired and barely hungry. I've been at work for 12 hours. I don't want to cook. Not to mention that I don't know how to cook. My husband will do nothing to procure grub for himself. Once, I didn't make dinner for 2 weeks, and he lost 10 pounds. He was 160 pounds (at max.) before those two weeks.
Once in a while, though, I decide I'm going to actually make dinner.
Last night was one of those nights.
I got out of work a little early, did some grocery shopping and came home with an idea. I was going to make chicken carbonara. I don't think I realized how many pots and pans this would be require, but no worries. We were given all of these fancy kitchen tools for our wedding. Might as well take them for a ride.
For the record, I have learned that you cannot ride pots and pans. All you can really do with them is make things hot
As I was pre-heating and arranging, the appliances were all like "WHHHAAAA???" The stove thought it was being molested by a stranger. It called the kitchen police on me.
Good thing they don't exist.
I got down to biznass on the cooking and being domestic and shit. It looked something like this:
|That's THREE pots/pans going at once. THREE. All making foods.|
All bein' delicious. One is filled with bacon. Mmm. Bacon.
I was on top of things. None of the food got overcooked because I was distracted. It was a cornucopia of bacon. Even cornucopias are good when there is bacon involved!
I made the food. It was actually good! Not like, husband is eating it because he doesn't want to upset me good, but really, actually good. I might even eat the leftovers. AOM NOM NOM.
Just to really throw the universe for a loop, I started doing the dishes right after we were done dinner. "No dishes sitting in the sink for this chick!" I thought. I probably should have been wearing an apron to complete the June Cleaver look.
And then it happened.
I got overconfident in my domestic abilities while cleaning two knives at once. I wasn't ready for that kind of multi-tasking mastery. I cut my pinkie finger. It hurt. It scared me. There was blood. My finger had to be amputated.
Okay, that last part isn't true. I still have the finger. And the cut wasn't that bad.
BUT, you can't clean dishes with a bandaid on your pinkie, so they had to stay there until my injury heals. Maybe for a week or two. Or until I hire a chef and a house-keeper. Whichever comes first.
The next thing that I'm making is reservations.
This experience gives me some inspiration, though. Once I have healed from all damage, I want to start chronicling my experience as a newbie-chef. I might not mind cooking if I got some recipes under my belt. I'll use this silly internet space to keep you in the loop about how many appendages I lose on the regular. This could be dangerous.
As always, it's hip to be square, kids.