Hey there, awesome Moxie-Dude readers!
Anyone who’s ever had the pleasure of eating at my house will only ever do it once without taking over all of the cooking parts. And by “the pleasure”, I really mean “the awkward experience” since if you let me cook for you it probably means that you don’t know me that well and may even be a little shy.
I was born with a disability.
When it comes to anything food-and-cooking related, I WILL screw it up. God made me that way and my family and I have learned to live with it.
The older I get, the more I realize just how degenerating my disability really is. Whereas once I could make home-made baby food (also known as mashed carrots) with unequaled swag, today I’m lucky if can get a frozen pizza to look like a frozen pizza after I get through with it.
Part of the problem is that I’m addicted to writing with an insatiable habit of getting lost in my bubble and there’s no room for my desk beside the stove. It’s a kitchen design issue.
That said, even I have to admit that last week I reached the lowest of lows in kitchen disasters.
It all started when I burned the potatoes. In my defense the little icons for telling which burner is the front burner and which is the back burner are not all that clear.
Dear Maytag: Why can’t you just WRITE: “Front Burner.” “Back Burner.”?
Alas, potatoes were not the “meat” of our dinner so I didn’t stress about it and decided to work around the mishap. I can be creative that way.
“Hmmmm . . . What’s the next best thing to go with roast chicken?” I asked myself.
“Oh I know! Bread!” I quickly answered. “The kids like to fill up on bread ANYWAYS. Total win!”
But with that thought came the realization that ketchup would not cut it with this roast chicken dinner and that I’d have to make GRAVY. (Why yes. Ketchup IS a staple in my house. How did you guess?)
So I took the chicken out of the oven and set it aside to make a gravy with what I call the messy reason why I don’t like to make roasts and what my mom calls “the drippings”.
I added water from the vegetables (making sure NOT to use the burned potato water) and poured flour into the saucepan to thicken it up just like my mom does. And my step-mom. And my daughter. And my boyfriend. And my friend Wendy.
Realizing that the rest of the world is able to make gravy gave me confidence.
I’m lying. It made me realize that no one ever lets me make the gravy.
All was going well in a sorta-kinda way because I had made a point to stay by the stove to stir my delicious-to-be gravy and not return to my computer.
Except it turns out that the flour wasn’t FLOUR. It was a jar of protein powder that my boyfriend keeps in my fridge – right next to the jar of flour that my mom keeps in my fridge.
Lucky for me my mom was over earlier in the week and had made gravy from a roast pork and there was still some of THAT gravy leftover. (Also in my fridge.)
Also lucky for me, my kids do not know the difference between chicken gravy and pork gravy.
Although they did ask between chews why my mother hadn’t come over to “fix our supper”.
Clearly I’ve raised my kids to be polite; although honest.