Master Chef? Probably Not.

So…

As I consistently state on here, I am working on being a work in progress. These check-ins I have with myself are absolutely necessary, because there are some things that I do that make absolutely no sense. Like not a lick. Nann. One thing I’ve noticed recently is my ability to create pretty fine dishes on my own, but when faced with the arduous task of making something pre-made, I eff it up beyond recognition.

I think I’d be able to convince you of this fate a bit better with picture examples.

Around the holiday season last year, I made a caramel apple crisp. Found a recipe, made my own modifications, and start to finish, it looked like this:

We dessert. For serious.

Now, if you give me a Pop-Tart to put in the oven (because, I just can’t justify buying a purpose for buying a toaster– FUH’ WHAT?), I get distracted by something shiny and it looks like this:

Dramatization required b/c it was a cookie dough Pop-Tart.

I make chicken dishes all the time, like this roasted one (that Smithers has called “casket sharp) on occasion:

Can I call this the “Paula Deen is my play granny” chicken?

 Or this curry chicken, whose recipe I got from my good buddy Miss Sara:

And even made up a scalloped potatoes dish. Peelt the taters, made a sauce from scratch, and EVERYTHING!

Forget a Helper. I do this.

So tell me why… the other day I was attempting (again) to broil a steak, following a recipe. Seared it on both sides so it could lock in the juices or whatnot, preheated my cookie sheet under the broiler, and transferred it. A few minutes later while washing up (I just can’t pile dishes in the one sink I have, you know), I notice more smoke than I normally see. A few delayed reactions later, I open the oven door, and see this:

Word? 

My first reaction: MY OVEN’S ON FIRE! AND IT’S ‘LECTRIC! I was gonna take a twitpic, but the sensible side of me said “STOOPID… YOU GOTS A FIRE. A FYE-UH!!” Because I’m inherently dumb, I tried blowing inside the oven (with my asthmatic a*s lungs), until I got the bright idea of opening and closing the oven door rapidly to put it out. It worked, and I pulled out the steak, which was seemingly unhurt through it all. Probably shouldn’t have used olive oil. I just reached for the first I could find.  *Rachel Ray shrug*

Later that evening, I spilled my Simply Lemonade w/Raspberry spritzer into our recently cleaned carpet, dropped my steak knife THISCLOSE to a vital toe, and almost fell in the shower. I blame the debbul. Something was trying its hardest to kill my joy. Maybe I just needed some sleep, and to have ordered takeout instead of being CAP’N SAVE A BUCK.

I’ll learn my lesson(s) one day. Soon.

My sprinkles ain’t smoky,
Beez

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