Cooking.

Now, to everyone else in the world making dinner may be easy. For me, not so much. For one thing, I hate cooking, and for the other, I’m horrible at it. The combination can be disastrous.

Our family had just finished watching a TV program for school and we were just sitting there minding our own business. Well, all of us kids know one thing, get up from your seat and you’re dead. OK, not really but the most dangerous time is that critical moment between getting up and getting to the kitchen because when you do Mom always tells you to do something or at least almost always. It’s like you draw attention to yourself and she has to come up with a job of some sort. This time was no exception. Just as I’d got up and began to purposefully walk to the study to write she said, “Time to make dinner.” I look at the clock and then to mom in stunned silence before saying, “But it’s only four!”
“And it will take an hour to make.”
“But we always make dinner at four thirty.” All of us kids looked at her as if she’d just sentenced us to an extra life time in prison, especially me cause as I said, I hate cooking. She ordered us to the kitchen to make the meal. Well, I didn’t want to be stuck doing dinner an extra half hour early for the rest of my life so I informed everyone we had to be done in half an hour. No one else seemed to be bothered but to me this was horrible.

My plan didn’t go very well. I started my noodles, dumping them in a blob in the water and set about getting vegetables and what ever else you do when Rose is giving orders for herbs I can’t find nor know what they are or look like. We rushed about, well, I rushed about, everyone else seemed to be perfectly orderly and unbothered. Much to my disagreement. They had their jobs done in halve an hour but I, who had somehow managed to get three jobs, wasn’t. When I strained the noodles you won’t believe what they did. They literally stuck together. As in they tried to ruin me by making tight little blobs of uncooked noodles that wouldn’t even come apart with a knife.

As I said, it can be disastrous to be both horrible at cooking and dislike it.
Rose and Missy thought it quite funny. I for one didn’t. I had managed to ruin noodles by putting them in water and despite the fact Missy and Rose kept me away from knives I burnt myself twice.

After Rose pried apart the noodles, well, all those that could be the rest they feed to the dog, and cooked them in butter and seasonings they did taste nice but it had been a hour. I’d failed to make my point. Thankfully no one rubbed it in and we didn’t have to cook dinner at four all the time, just half the time. So, as you can see, I am a miserable cook and one that is quite impassionate.

P.S. I still have to cook anyway.