I come from a family of great awesome cooks.
People always wonder how I’ve always managed to eat living away from home in high school and uni., when the best thing I can make is spagetti bolognaise.
Fortunately, I’ve also always been around friends who are great cooks.
I’ve tried. Really.
And I’m always so grateful, say when I tried making blueberry cheesecake for my mom’s birthday and it turned out like slimey putter, or when I tried making rocky road and they turned out like, um, rocks, she always manage to eat quite a bit of whatever I create and always had good things to say about it.
I was in the kitchen just now, happily puttering along preparing baked potatoes to be ready for when Nasty comes home.
I turned up the oven and went about washing, cutting yucky bits, oiling and salting.
When just about ready, I bent down to open the oven, already heated to maximum, and saw to my absolute horrors thick smoke bellowing out of the opening.
As my eyes watered from the smoke, I see that a cardboard pizza box has been sitting there since who-knows-when. I didn’t see fire, but all the same, I panicked like fuck.
I ran about opening the balcony door and all the windows I could lay my hands on. I turned up the smoke sucker above the stoves and looked around for smoke alarms. I found possibly one in the hallway and shut that door.
As the smoke died down and I gingerly remove the now crispy pizza box, I found inside a slice of just-as-crispy pizza and that one big bit of the box is burnt.
I’m now making the potatoes again, but Nasty (and his flatmate): I’m sorry if the potatoes, and your entire apartment, now smells like burnt cardboard.
The reason I told you first about how nice my mom is about everything I make and every fuck-up I ever did in the kitchen, and how she has always been great about it all….please be nice to me too. :)