In Which I Fail In The Areas Of Cooking, Balance, and Animal Husbandry.
According to my horde of Italian aunts, I will "never find a nice boy" if I don't know how to make a solid pasta carbonara. The fact that I'm not really into eggs (or boys, for that matter) is, apparently, not a problem. So this evening, I got a chance to practice on the aforementioned dish.
With time, and perhaps some therapy, I may be able to forget all this ever happened.
First, I set a pan of bacon on fire. When I tried to move the smoldering scraps to the counter, a bold attempt to salvage both the meal and my cooking cred, our Great Dane ate them.
Strike one.
Then came the egg hunt. I dragged myself out to the yard, armed myself with a broomstick, and fought my way into my sister's chicken coop. Injuries sustained: one peck in the knee by Steve McQueen, three eggs broken over the front of my shirt, and half a shoelace swallowed by Thoreau, one of our ducks.
I now smell like a barnyard.
Strike two.
As I made my escape from that avian hell, I managed to sidestep the huge ocotillo directly outside the coop--only to stumble headfirst into a unfurled length of chicken wire. I look like I was mauled by a wolverine.
Strike three.
Also, the carbonara ended up sucking.
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With time, and perhaps some therapy, I may be able to forget all this ever happened.
First, I set a pan of bacon on fire. When I tried to move the smoldering scraps to the counter, a bold attempt to salvage both the meal and my cooking cred, our Great Dane ate them.
Strike one.
Then came the egg hunt. I dragged myself out to the yard, armed myself with a broomstick, and fought my way into my sister's chicken coop. Injuries sustained: one peck in the knee by Steve McQueen, three eggs broken over the front of my shirt, and half a shoelace swallowed by Thoreau, one of our ducks.
I now smell like a barnyard.
Strike two.
As I made my escape from that avian hell, I managed to sidestep the huge ocotillo directly outside the coop--only to stumble headfirst into a unfurled length of chicken wire. I look like I was mauled by a wolverine.
Strike three.
Also, the carbonara ended up sucking.
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