I’m a terrible cook. I hate cooking. Cooking and math – two things I do only under extreme duress.
But now I have these kids, and as my friend Jennifer says, “You have to FEED them too?!”
So when I prepare a meal it’s kind of an event. I’m a mess in the kitchen. I can’t find things, I lose my train of thought, I have to stop and clean something, I use the wrong tools for jobs (my sister knows every kitchen widget and how to use it), my knives are dull, nothing is ordered sensibly. Organizational skills are also not my strong suit, which probably translates to the kitchen disasters.
Every time I’m making a meal and my husband tries to talk to me, he ends up saying “What’s the problem? Why are you mad at me?”
I try to explain that after knowing me for 21 years he should understand that no one should talk to me when I’m cooking. Or even be in the vicinity.
So you can imagine how I feel when I take the time to make a grilled cheese sandwich and this is what my son does to it: