Cooking has never been easy for me. Unless you count the time when my oven was out of commission for a few months (actually, a year and a half) and I didn’t miss it.
My limitations showed up as a teen. My mother said frying an egg was easy. Just stick it in the pan over medium heat and flip it once. I did as I was told.
I hollered to tell her the egg wasn’t doing anything. She hollered back to turn up the heat. Which I did.
In my defense, she failed to tell me to crack the egg and pour it in the skillet.
You’d think I’d pay attention to the Off Limits sign, but I still get these moments where I wander into the kitchen to make real food. This time it was macaroni and cheese. Good ol’ creamy on the bottom, bubbly in the middle, and crackly brown on top mac’n cheese.
I found a recipe labeled easy, skipped off to the store to pick up cheese, and came back with the exuberance of someone who didn’t remember she was The Culinary Klutz. I won’t go into the preparation. There will be nightmares. (For the record, fat free milk doesn’t create creaminess and hotdog buns are not a good substitute for bread crumbs.)
Two hours and a tower of dirty bowls, skillets, and pots later, I pulled the steaming stuff out of the oven. The crowds cheered. The taste-testers wept. And I promised to leave the cooking to people who think it’s easy.
It’s all yours, folks!