Thursday, November 11, 2010

Chef? Ha! Not So Much...

I. Don't. Cook.

I have a slave for that. she is very good at it and she enjoys it. Perhaps not the clean up afterward, but that's just tough.

It is not for lack of ability, mind you. I can follow a recipe and have concocted a small number of my own tasty meals, including my bacon stir fry. Nummy.

No, the reason is... Well I'm thinking Final Destination. That overly elaborate death trap that requires the noob to activate their own demise. This morning is an excellent example. There must have been an excess of cosmic radiation floating around because this morning the brilliant idea to cook a little breakfast for my son and myself.

The first clue to my pending culinary calamity was getting the utensils needed to make the food. Pan, check. Spatula, check. Forks? Oh, okay I need to wash some. There were a couple of bowls in the sink, but I didn't think anything of it. That is until I turned my adjustable faucet on full and the magic of concave surfaces gave me an involuntary shower. Well, that happened.

Undaunted, yet soggy, I returned to the stove and began heating the pan. Now, I need something to grease the pan with. Butter, of course. So I dug it out of the fridge, found a butter knife, and cut a section into the pan. There it sat, un-melted. WTF stove? Normally I enjoy tweaking knobs, but when the stove isn't cooperating I don't enjoy it near as much. Apparently the adjustable settings, you know numbers one through ten, are a lie. There is either off or lighting shit on fire. Instantly the butter melted and started evaporating. Crap! Okay, turn it down, add a bit more butter, and try again.

With the eggs set to cook I decided to pop the bread into the toaster so it would be good to go at a moment's notice. No issues. Okay, so maybe things are starting to settle into the groove. Scramble the eggs a bit... Wait, they aren't cooking. Not even turning white in the center. So I turn the stove back up waiting for the fireball to follow. After a moment of squinting at the pan, the eggs began cooking nicely. I let out the breath held between clenched teeth, and retrieved the cheese. What are scrambled eggs without a little cheese?

So, things progressed nicely from there. Little did I realize they were just awaiting the grand finale. Once the eggs were cooked, I brought the pan over to the table to dump the eggs on the plate. I reached up on top of the refrigerator to grab the bread one more time to set it on the table. Instead, I grabbed the box containing canning jars, also on top of the fridge, flinging the whole thing down onto the table. Jars went all over, slamming into the remains of my son's dinner from last night, a bowl of hardened romin noodles with a convenient fork protruding like a medieval catapult. Broken remnants of noodles went everywhere! Reflexively, I went to set the pan down. The spatula, still in the pan, apparently envying the siege weapon configuration the fork took on, joined in the fray flinging freshly cooked eggs all over the kitchen.

So, that is how I made breakfast this morning... for the dog. -Begrudgingly munching dry toast-...

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