I have a confession; I can cook.
I’m not proud of it and I have been trying to hide it for years. But I can. And
I’m pretty decent too.
Yes, there have been some
discrepancies. There was the early morning incident, where I fumbled around in
the cupboards of my dimly lit apartment for the cinnamon, but when I took a big
bite of my oatmeal, I realized that the spice that I had accidentally used was
cayenne pepper.
Then
there was the time when I was making a funfetti cake for a friend’s birthday
but I was out of vegetable oil. Note to
my readers; olive oil DOES NOT equal vegetable oil* I like to call that a
not-so-funfetti cake followed by store-bought cupcakes. Rookie mistake.
There have
been a few defining moments in my life when I realized that I was getting old.
The first was when I realized that I was beginning to enjoy Sheryl Crow’s music.
Then one day I found myself watching home improvement shows on HGTV and I had a
minor panic attack (which could have been a heart attack judging from the assumed
age of any HGTV-watcher). Now I am consistently finding grey hairs on my head
and have also found that I don’t mind cooking and preparing meals. I think that
I might even like it. What is this world coming to? The minute I start wearing
bright red lipstick and calling people “sonny,” I will assume the end is near.
I keep an
incredibly tidy house too. The military
has nothing on me. Nothing is out of place. For three years I asked my mom for
a label-maker before she realized that I was serious and gave me one for my
birthday. Best present ever. With a skeptical look on their faces, people ask
me, “What are you going to label?” Are you kidding me?! What am I not going to label?! My house is like a
robber’s dream come true, just go straight for the good stuff, it’s not hard to
locate. You can find anything in my house, no problem.
But how
does this happen? I’ve spent a lifetime steering clear of any hint of
housewife-y-ness. I have also spent the last ten years of my life trying not to become an adult. I used to hate
broccoli when I was a kid. Now I can’t get enough of it! Make this adult-y-ness
stop! What’s next? Dentures? Wrinkles? “Mom jeans”? Children???
The
only way that I can think to combat this inevitable demise is to keep my hair
long and my jeans low. I have also had a sudden urge to start a garden, but
will cross that bridge when I get to it. So until then, if you have any good
recipes that you would like to send me…AUGH! No! I mean, let the dish sit in
the sink for more than five minutes….it’s fiiiine….
*Vegetable and canola oil are both derived from vegetables
and can be interchangeable in recipes. Olives are a fruit and this oil is not
acceptable for most baked goods. Read about it here.
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