In need of some inspiration or at least guidance, I was so graciously allowed by mom to steal a few cookbooks from her overflowing bookcase to take home with me. Since there were 8 billion to choose from, I went off of Attention-Captured-by-Title and pure instinct. I grabbed 3 immediately: World’s Best Recipe’s (kind of a bold statement, don’t you think?), COOKIES (speaks for itself, at least the capital letter do), and Dinners in 30 Minutes or Less (I’m a fan of efficiency). I never understood why she such an overabundance of recipe literature, considering everything she made spewed straight from her brain and onto the dinner table. The only time I saw her crack open a book was around the holidays, when everyone except me would contribute with cooking and I think she only had it there to make everyone else feel better about THEIR cooking abilities. I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen, even to observe, because I had no issues with walking by a hard-working chef and grabbing an entire handful of raw dough and asking why they even had to cook it, it was good as is, save yourself the time. Such a nuisance was not appreciated in the kitchen, so I never got to experience Mom’s kitchen stadium, thus never learning how to cook, hence this blog spot, right here, right now. Like SlumDog says, it’s all written.
I thought I could fool anybody into thinking I could cook though, I mean just because my entire family knows of my spaz status in the kitchen, doesn’t mean it’s plastered on my forehead does it? When I walk by a stranger, they can’t tell just by looking at me - can they? Apparently. I’m all excited for this new adventure of becoming the next Top Chef contender ready to take on Bobby Flay when I come home and show off my new cookbooks to anyone that will listen … that day it was the innocent bystanding roomie. One look at the 30-Minutes-or-Less cookbook and he says “30 minutes? So it should take you 60?”
Funny. Verrrrrrrrrry funny. I take back all those nice things I said about your toaster.
