My poor husband. His wife is a complete freak about cooking incredible meals.
I want to be a genius in the kitchen.
Fantasy: Cooking with no conviction and making culinary delights that make my family sit back and gasp.
Reality: I hit and I miss. Nothing comes out perfectly perfect every time. My family gets fed but sometimes they don’t get fed..well. Not that the food is bad but sometimes dinner starts out with good intentions but then becomes something that is 40% edible.
When I get it right, I get. it. so. right.. I rooster around like I just won a cooking competition with Bobby Flay, Mario Batelli and Martha Stewart’s lackys.
Quiches? I can make them so good that a lumberjack in Alaska would eat them. Lumberjacks don’t normally eat quiche, so I’ve heard.
Soufflés? Nope. A big container of falling down nopeness.
Chili? I can make a garlic chicken chili that would make you cry with happiness.
Beef Wellington? I can make a mess that would make you cry.
The thing is that I try. I really try. Sometimes the “cooking bug that crawls up my bum” makes me attempt to create foods that seem doable.
Just ask my family. They would be happy to tell you.
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