Every once in a while, I have to cook. My children conveniently make plans to be elsewhere.
That should say it all. There should be no further need to explain with a posting, right? Oh NO NO NO NO!
When I was a single mom, we at a lot of Hamburger Helper, one form of pasta with red sauce or garlic & butter, or another, hot dogs, mac-n-cheese, take out - you know, easy stuff. When I married PC, however, he took over the cooking because, well, he's much better at it than I, and, frankly, he enjoys it. He has increased our overly bland palettes and taught us not to pick the "icky things" out of our food.
Tonight was an exceptionally busy night for us. SmallBoy had basketball practice, Girl had softball practice, and there was grocery shopping to be done in advance of the looming ice storm. PC does a large amount of the housework, as we work opposite schedules on most days. Tonight, we split the chores. My choices were grocery shopping or making dinner (Oh WOE is ME!). I despise grocery shopping, and, PC is a much better (read efficient and cost-conscious) shopper than I. Dinner was just a mish-mosh of chicken & rice, something I would make in my previous life. After weighing the options carefully (as he was shoving me out of encouraging me to make a decision to either stay in the car and shop or get out and begin dinner), I chose the latter.
Without doing more in the area of changing from Working Mom to After Work Mom than taking off my killer boots and hanging up my coat, I threw the partially defrosted chicken in the microwave, guessed at the weight, hit start and walked away. I was on task, though. I found the baking dish, sprayed it with cooking spray, and started the oven. I found the seasonings that I wanted and waited for the "beep beep beep" of the microwave to indicate it was time to check the progress of the defrosting poultry. At about 7.5 minutes in, it dawned on me that I'd heard nothing, and I bolted in to try and stop the process before the microwave defrosting pre-cook began. I was not successful. I did, however manage to yank the meat, throw it in the dish, season it a little and pop it in the oven (doesn't that sound just SO Donna Reed? I just "popped it in the oven.").
Chicken defrosted and in the oven! Mission accomplished. Time to relax and chat with the kids about their days. A few minutes passed and the thought of the chicken passed through my head. Yeah, passed straight through without stopping at "Go" and collecting $200. At some point, though I did realize that perhaps it would be a good idea to start the rice, because, boy, wouldn't that be awful if the chicken was done and I hadn't even started the rice. EEK. Rice started. Chicken progress checked. PLENTY of time.
LargeBoy came into the kitchen and, as most hungry 17 year old boys do, asked when it would be dinner time. I had no clue.
"Mom - what do you mean?"
"Well, I just started the water for the rice and the chicken's not ready yet."
"So, half hour? 45 minutes?"
As he questioned me further, I picked up the phone, feeling shameful, not because of any notions of women knowing how to cook or being better in the kitchen than men, but because I JUST can't cook, and called my husband.
"Mom! You're kidding, right? You're calling PC to find out how long dinner is going to be based on where dinner is in the cooking process?"
"Well, yes."
Thankfully, my husband was just pulling up to the house when I called. HOORAY! My knight in shining armor! My Prince Charming (hence the "PC") come to save me from the evil overlord, Sir Supper. I could relax.
He checked on the progress of dinner and told me to go ahead and add the rice to the water. I did. I put it in. I stirred. I covered. I walked away.
Now, I know you're all out there shaking your heads. THIS was the result: 
Yup. Burnt the rice. Thankfully, this was taken when someone else burnt the rice and 'fessed up, but this is pretty much what my pan looked like.
I can bake. Oh YES, I can bake! Pies, cookies, cakes - anything that is baking, but so NOT cooking!
The family reached the conclusion tonight after salvaging what we did (which was most), that when I cook and not my husband, they will make sure to not be hungry or to eat at a friend's house.
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