I’m a pretty good cook. I can say that with complete confidence, because I can’t think of even three complete fails. Even if something didn’t come out looking like the picture, it was still edible.
In other news, the Lord blessed me with a low-maintenance husband who simply seems thrilled his wife cooked something. As opposed to the days when he’s told to put a frozen pizza in the oven or heat up some Ramen. Or the days when he gets a phone call from Crazy Wife demanding he bring home Moe’s. It’s all about balance, folks.
I apologize if this strikes a nerve, but I just assume that if you can read a recipe, you can cook. It ain’t rocket science, after all. It’s not like I’m making something fancy, y’all. I have a 3-year-old. Chicken and rice are major staples.
I do have one culinary nemesis, though. And it looks like THIS:
Recipes lie. They lie to me ALL THE TIME when it comes to cooking meat on the stove top. Like, how dare you imply that it’ll take all of three minutes per side to cook this pork chop! Are you trying to force me into a sobbing ball in the fetal position next to my stove as my children beg for fruit snacks because dinner is taking so long?
Y’all. I made fried pork chops tonight. Spoiler: They turned out fine. Tasty, even. But did they take six total minutes to cook? Of course not! I fried and fried, slaved over a hot stove, then fried some more. And when I put them on the table and my husband cut into them?
“Uh, how pink can a pork chop be?” he asks.
Wife briefly contemplates how bad food poisoning for two adults and two babies would be…
“UGH! I’ll cook them some more!”
More stove slaving. Returns chops to tableside.
“Can you stomach a little salmonella because you love me and I’m tired of standing over the stove?”
Only time will tell!
It just irks me. IRKS me. Because I know that if I don’t cook (insert meat here) long enough, it could harm (kill?) my family. That’s horrific. But if I cook it too long, it’ll be a hockey puck. And my poor husband will have to try to eat leftover hockey puck at work with a plastic knife. This is an image with which I struggle.
Also, tonight’s dinner made me sad two-fold. I pouted for both reasons, even though I kept telling myself that I’m an adult and not allowed to pout (while washing the 2.7 million dishes I dirtied making the freakin’ pork chops).
Today was George’s 3rd birthday. I was determined to make it a little bit special. Since we already threw the big party, I asked the Hubs to bring home cupcakes and a balloon (Peppa Pig-themed, of course) to celebrate after dinner.
The 3-year-old would NOT obey during dinner. OK, that’s probably not the most shocking statement of the year, especially if you’ve ever had, been around, or seen a 3-year-old. But still! I made mashed potatoes, the aforementioned pork chops, and Brussels sprouts with bacon. I put bacon, potatoes, and three bites of pork chops on his plate, handily avoiding a run-in with the green addition to the tablescape. He finally got the pork chop down. I asked for two more bites of mashed potatoes. He just wouldn’t do it. I had threatened that he wouldn’t get a cupcake if he didn’t obey, but I finally reached the end of my rope and called it. And so, my precious boy did not get a cupcake for his birthday dinner. No candles, no song, nada! Well, I did later cave and give him his present. I’m not a total monster.
Then again … the Hubs and I decided to eat our cupcakes in front of him (and feed bits to Olivia), hoping to get his attention (i.e. compliance). Nothing.
What was that, you say?
“Terrible Twos has nothing on the Threes?”
Oh. I thought (hoped) you might be joking.
Ah well, take each day at a time. His Twos were pretty fantastic most of the time. It’s not like he’s scarred because he didn’t get additional sugar on his third birthday (he might have gotten some chocolate custard at Culver’s for lunch). I doubt he’ll even remember tomorrow.
This parenting thing, y’all. And I thought having a “real” job was challenging! Ha!