Casey is out of town for two days, so I think we all know what that means. Visits to the strip clubs, having the gals over for poker, not running the dishwasher, throwing a killa party with all my peeps…
HAHA. Just kidding. It means I could fart whenever I want and that unless I learned how to cook real quick, me and the kids were going to starve to death.
It was do or die time, people. Mama had to make some dinner.
I have a long and illustrious history of not cooking. I have made dinner in this house exactly twice. The first time we had just moved in together and I whipped up some Trader Joe’s Pad Thai. Very, very soon thereafter Casey and I sat down to discuss household responsibilities. He got cooking. I got toilet cleaning. Seemed fair.
About two weeks ago I decided to take another stab at it. We have been getting so many delicious veggies from our CSA that I decided to try my hand at preparing some of them for human consumption. We had a pretty, shiny eggplant that I decided I was going to season and grill.
I dutifully looked up a recipe, gathered my ingredients and dove right in. I sliced, I olive oiled, I seasoned. And I’ll be damned if it didn’t look tasty. Casey grilled them up (long story. Not allowed around flames. Tell you later), and when they were all said and done, they didn’t look half bad.
They did, however, taste bad. They were bland and mushy. I managed to mangle a recipe with four ingredients. Casey and Kyle covered theirs in melted cheese and pretended to act like they thought it was deeeeelish, but we all know you could cover a gym sock in melted cheese and it would still be edible.
It was official. I was a terrible, no good, awful cook. A prison wouldn’t hire me. I was a culinary failure.
I could tell Casey was nervous to leave me. He had added The Sesame Inn and Papa John’s to our emergency numbers. And the first night I did order food. Because one of the other benefits of Casey’s traveling is I can eat stuff that he normally won’t eat. Like sweet, sweet crab rangoons.
Tonight though? Tonight I was going to MAKE SOMETHING. I looked around my kitchen. Out of the corner of my eye I saw it, glistening in the early evening sun like a god. That’s right. A Boboli pizza shell. Hot damn, kids. Mama is making pizza.
And not just A pizza. OH NO. Everyone, get in for a ride on the Suburban Earth Mom Express.
And I was just getting started.
I didn’t even use a recipe. I stood there and let the kitchen gods take me over. I went with my gut. I felt my way around the kitchen, like a blind person. But not totally blind, because I can actually see just fine. I more meant in metaphorically blind.
I put my creation in the oven and waited the nine long minutes to see if was edible. And do you know what?
Now you naysayers can tell me to do some roll slowing, that it was only a stupid pizza, but I won’t let you piss on my rainbow. I made food and the food was good.
Perhaps my culinary curse is lifted. Maybe it’s my time to shine in the kitchen. Wait. What’s that? The GARAGE DOOR! Casey is home! OH THANK GOD. I thought we were all going to die.
Yours in Boboli’s