Somehow, more than a week has gone by since I was last looking at the blog. Maybe it's because I'm admiring the new appliances too much. We have named the fridge-Moby Fridge in honor of its size. And, I will report that I have NOT hit my head since it was delivered! It is wonderful, and I gave it a pat for my bee balm friend Lizzie...
However, I digress. This post is actually about admitting to something I unashamedly try to get out of at the first opportunity: cooking a meal. I love to bake; I do not love to cook. I do not practice, therefore I am not very good at it. I married a man who can cook, so why should I learn? Anyway, we planned a wonderful dinner for last night to celebrate our 29th anniversary. Lou came home from the hyperbaric therapy exhausted and out of sorts-he let himself become dehydrated without realizing it. I made him take some pain pills for his toe, then he drank two glasses of water before he laid down. Meanwhile, I have Sarah O, Sara B and Henry all ready for dinner. What could I do? I seasoned the steaks, put the bread in the oven, the corn in the microwave, and the green beans on the stove top. I set up the electric skillet I use for latkes, and started cooking, trying to time things to get to the table together. (Don't even ask why we weren't grilling them in the 90+ degree heat) AND--it happened!! everything came out when it was supposed to, and it even tasted good. I was a wreck. Too much pressure for me. Sorry, darling daughters, cooking meals is not a skill you could ever pick up from me. Making stand-up ducks on a crayon lake, cookie press cookies, poppyseed cake-anytime. Meals-go talk to your father.....
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