Crappy Day, Funny Tale
Today was a craptacular day, but I'm not going to bore you all with that stuff. I'll just focus on the one crappy event that was actually kind of funny, and should demonstrate why I am not to be allowed into kitchens, ever.
I'm packing and cleaning and what not, because that's what happens before you move. Usually. I've managed to eat almost everything in my fridge and cupboards, so I can leave here with no leftovers. All that's left are a bunch of Ramen noodles and several cans of Spaghettios. Yes, Spaghettios. Yummy little pasta circles... mmmm. So I decide that some of those cans should make a fine lunch for the day. Yes indeedy.
I will always maintain that the kitchen is not a room that I am skilled in using. In fact, beyond silverware and the microwave oven, I am more or less completely handicapped upon entering a kitchen. Professor Steven Hawking would be like Julia Child compared to me. But that's beside the point. I open the tins and pour them into a pot, which I then put on an oven burner. Turn on oven burner. Stir precious little pasta O's around a bit. Get distracted by something for a moment. Look away to fix whatever it was that commanded my attention. Look back at pot of O's, which is now ON FIRE.
Someone tell me: does this shit only happen to me? Or am I so impressively incompetent that even the simple task of cooking instant pasta O's is beyond my nanoscopic skills?
In any event, I manage to extinguish the fire and then, after cursing my name, my lineage, Betty Crocker, Chef Boyardee, and my entire kitchen extensively, I sit and consume burnt Spaghettios, which now have a distinctly strong barbecue (read: carbonized) flava.
Note to deinemuse and ghostwriterxx: Don't let me near the kitchen. Ever. Seriously. Heh.
I'm packing and cleaning and what not, because that's what happens before you move. Usually. I've managed to eat almost everything in my fridge and cupboards, so I can leave here with no leftovers. All that's left are a bunch of Ramen noodles and several cans of Spaghettios. Yes, Spaghettios. Yummy little pasta circles... mmmm. So I decide that some of those cans should make a fine lunch for the day. Yes indeedy.
I will always maintain that the kitchen is not a room that I am skilled in using. In fact, beyond silverware and the microwave oven, I am more or less completely handicapped upon entering a kitchen. Professor Steven Hawking would be like Julia Child compared to me. But that's beside the point. I open the tins and pour them into a pot, which I then put on an oven burner. Turn on oven burner. Stir precious little pasta O's around a bit. Get distracted by something for a moment. Look away to fix whatever it was that commanded my attention. Look back at pot of O's, which is now ON FIRE.
Someone tell me: does this shit only happen to me? Or am I so impressively incompetent that even the simple task of cooking instant pasta O's is beyond my nanoscopic skills?
In any event, I manage to extinguish the fire and then, after cursing my name, my lineage, Betty Crocker, Chef Boyardee, and my entire kitchen extensively, I sit and consume burnt Spaghettios, which now have a distinctly strong barbecue (read: carbonized) flava.
Note to deinemuse and ghostwriterxx: Don't let me near the kitchen. Ever. Seriously. Heh.