A few months ago, I started getting Martha Stewart Living in the mail. I didn’t subscribe to it, and I’m honestly not sure how I started getting it.
But I’m pretty sure someone’s trying to play a cruel, cruel joke on me.
I’ve resigned myself to the fact that in many ways, I know I’d make a “true lady” cringe on a daily basis. I like to think I can be ladylike when the situation calls for it, but only on such dire occasions.
Case(s) in point: I hate shaving my legs (but also hate leg hair. Hmm…), I let my dog lick me on the lips (judge me if you want. But just look at the face on my puppy and tell me you’d act any differently.), and I’m more than happy to go three (ish) days without showering.
But even more dire?
I cannot cook.
And not for lack of trying, believe me. In truth, there are a handful of dishes I prepare with average competence, like spaghetti, basically-already-prepared-seafood-stuffed-salmon (I mean, you take it out of the freezer and bake it. Not a lot of ingenuity there.), eggs over-easy. I also make a mean Velveeta-filled grilled cheese and can heat up a can of tomato soup like nobody’s business.
But sadly, that’s just about it. And what’s even more sad is that I’m prone to ruining super easy, (seemingly) fool-proof dishes, like frozen pizza (as in, once when I was attempting to remove a beloved Tombstone from the oven, half of the pizza fell into the fiery furnace below, and Brother-in-Law had to cut it up into M&M-sized pieces to be edible) and bagels (yup, toasting them too long makes them pretty much disgusting). And somehow, despite my daily consumption, I have never been able to perfect a pot of coffee.
I drink a lot of bad coffee.
But it doesn’t stop there: (Too) often, I try to make up recipes like I’m a contestant on Top Chef or something. I’m sure you’re surprised to hear how well this doesn’t work.
One actual occurrence:
Me: I want to make something with shrimp, sundried tomatoes and white wine.
Boyfriend: Um. Do you have a recipe?
Me: No, I’m just going to go with it. *Opens can of sundried tomatoes, uncorks white wine, thaws shrimp.*
Boyfriend: Okay, but…you really need some kind of recipe.
Me: No, I’ll just make it happen. It’ll be fine.
Outcome: Me ruining meal because there was no recipe and those ingredients aren’t actually great together; Boyfriend attempting to whip something up out of all the ingredients I opened. A failure, overall.
Other failures have included canned-tuna tacos, hummus-coated tilapia, hour-long hard-boiled eggs (hey, I was on the phone)…you get the picture.
To be honest, I think I’d be okay with my cooking (in)ability except for the fact that Boyfriend actually can cook. As in, really well. As in, if he’s traveling for work and doesn’t make me meals that I can just pop in the microwave or oven while he’s gone, I’ll go back to the saltines-and-Country Bob’s diet I lived on my sophomore year of college.
And no one wants to go back to that.
Don’t get me wrong: I love that Boyfriend is a chef. But there’s this little part of me that kind of wants to be the couple from that stupid Kenny Chesney song where they suffer through eating burnt dinners their whole first year instead of the one where Boyfriend ever so kindly gags after tasting my first attempt at chili mac.
Sorry, unborn children. Looks like Mom’s cooking nights will be chicken nuggets and mac n’cheese.
Unless I burn them.