Things I Make Well

I'm no Betty Crocker. I'm no Julia Child. I'm no Emeril Legasse. I'm no Bryan Voltaggio (but I must say...YUM).

I'm sure my fiance wished I were a chef extraordinaire. He'd be feasting on eggplant Parmesan, perfectly flaky swordfish steaks, golden roasted and moist roast chicken and a lasagna that rivals Rome's. Instead, he gets to munch on dry, ex-frozen chicken breasts with minimal flavoring, frozen pizza and average tasting spaghetti.

In my defense, I'm only a seasoned chef of macaroni and cheese, ramen noodle soup and a killer bowl of Frosted Flakes.

But I'm marrying a champ. The wonderful man I'm set to marry in less than 40 days (yikes) has only turned away one of my meals (which only proved to be good for me...as it was a medium rare t-bone steak that I'd have more of since he didn't want it) and has thanked me much too profusely for every meal I've managed to actually complete.

I've spent hours zesting lemons and oranges (to get approx. 2 tablespoons of filed away rind of each) and chopping parsley and (delicious licorice smelling) tarragon for a chicken topping--failing to realize until afterward, that I did not have any chicken. I've set a box of Krispy Kremes on fire while trying to boil water for hot chocolate (It was a sad day. And the only day in which I got lectured by Firemen about leaving flammable items on top of the stove.) I've dumped a half cup of chunky milk (which could only be characterized as cottage cheese at that point) on top of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Yes, you heard me right. I've messed up macaroni and cheese. More than once.

Now you'd think that my lack of culinary skills would be made up for in another area of my life with another talent. But it's just not the case. I got scolded in art class for not shading a circle well enough for it to be believable. I sat on the bench in 11th grade as 7th and 8th graders played on the varsity softball team. The only soccer award I won was getting yellow carded for cursing on the field. And I couldn't carry a tune if I were the world's heavyweight leader (which I am not, by the way).

I tend to be good at messing up. I ruined my chances in a law enforcement career by driving like Danica Patrick, despite the lack of the race track and getting caught on every chance I had available. I killed my credit by making friends with credit lines at such stores as Neiman Marcus, Bloomingdales and Banana Republic.

A journey. I'm on one. Hoping to be a better person after I get to wherever the hell it is that I'm going.