I Feel Snubbed

I don’t know how I missed this, but there is apparently one reality show I should have applied for last year.

Frankly, I am shocked that the casting directors did not come and hunt me down for this one.

If there is anything I excel at, it’s this:  Worst Cooks in America.

I read about it in the paper, and was immediately insulted that I had not been chosen for this series.  I raced to the computer to look up the website to find out more about the participants.  As I scanned the members of the teams, I became pretty confident that you couldn’t find a better worst cook than me.  Except for the lady who put her husband in the hospital with food poisoning.  She might give me some competition.  On the other hand, the only reason I haven’t added that misfortune to my resume could be because I have a smarter husband.

When I met my future husband, Cap’n Firepants, I was living off Ramen Noodle and Diet Coke.  I was a little intimidated by the fact that his mother was a nutritionist.  And, in the elder Firepants household, meals were a big deal.  BIG, BIG Deal.  Like slave half the morning in the kitchen over making lunch, then half the afternoon in the kitchen cleaning up lunch, then the other half of the afternoon making dinner, then the – well, you see where this is going.

I consoled myself with the knowledge that, at least the Cap’n knew how to cook.

I did try when we got married.  Got lots of recipe books, mostly bestowed upon me by in-laws.  Got subscriptions to Taste of Home and Southern Living – also, now that I think about it, gifted to me by the in-laws.  Hmm.  How did I not pick up on those subtle hints?

The true testament to my ineptitude in the kitchen was initiated by an incident in which I decided to pre-heat the oven, not realizing that something had dripped on the bottom during my last use. Apparently, a lot of something.   I turned the dial, and left the room.  Minutes later, the smoke alarm went off.  I ran into the kitchen, and there was smoke everywhere.  Our Golden Retriever, Mrs. P.I.B., who was only a year or two old, freaked out, racing around the room frantically panting while I shut off the oven, opened doors and windows, and grabbed a broom to beat the smoke away from the smoke alarm.

Yep, I hadn’t even started cooking anything that evening, technically, and still managed to almost kill us.

Here’s the kicker, though.  From then on, anytime I turned on a burner or the oven in the kitchen, Mrs. P.I.B. would back out of the room, tail between her legs, and hysterically pace near the front door the entire time I occupied the kitchen.

You know you’re a bad cook when even your dog won’t come in the kitchen if you’re anywhere near the stove.

Mrs. P.I.B. Running Away from My Home-cooked Meals

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