I've started to take on the responsibility of cooking dinner twice a week for my family. I switch off with my mom and Maecy. This is only the second night I've cooked, but I can tell it's going to be rough.
Yesterday my mom and I were deciding what to make and she requested that I make barbeque chicken pizza (the same kind Deb, Ali, and I made those two times). And, since I'm such an obliging person, the ingredients were written down and purchased to day so I could make it.
Everything started out fine, except that (as usual) I was running low on time. My mom was gracious enough to grill and chop up the chicken (the part I hate doing). She's a winner. Did it in record time. I grated all of the cheeses, measured all of the sauce, put the pizzas all together, and tossed them in the oven. Set the timer for 15 minutes because the recipe said 20 and I thought that was kind of long.
After those suckahs were in the oven I went outside to check out the progress on our halfway newly paved dirt road (I
know! Crazy news. I'm not sure what in the heck their thinking, but there's suddenly pavement out there). After a few minutes (I thought) I came back in to hear the buzzer going off, smoke everywhere in the house, and my mother pulling the stupid things out of the oven.
They were completely burnt. As in "you'll get cancer if you eat this" burnt. And this, my friends, is why I hate cooking. You put so much effort into a meal, turn your head for one second, and then....it's ruined.
Bites the big one.