He Who Laughs, Or The Complete Idiot's Guide to Intimacy

I should not be allowed in kitchens, unless it’s to prepare a wee small hours cheese plate.

Last night I burned two pork chops in the oven so badly that they literally made a gasping sound when I peeled them out of the baking dish.  With two hot pads I carried the blackened dish to the sink, and after three seconds under cold running water the dish shattered in my hands.

I stood over the sink shrieking, my mind blown.  How could something as sturdy as a Pyrex baking dish disappear like a handful of sand through my fingers?  I suppose that’s just the furious destructive power of my culinary ineptitude.

What will I do if when I have a husband and children?  They’ll have to wear helmets when I cook, and we’ll need one of those showers in our kitchen, you know, the kind they had in your high school science classroom in case someone burst into flames.

Seeing as how I don’t currently have a husband and/or children, I went ahead as planned and ate one of the charred chops for dinner and the second today for lunch.  It was a bit like eating a belt.