Just to drive home how truly pathetic I am in the kitchen, I'll tell you a story.
I decided to cook dinner for the family tonight. I thought maybe home-made pizza. So I drove to the supermarket, and among other things, I purchased: One ready made pizza base, already topped with tomato sauce, one packet of diced ham, one packet of already-sliced pepperoni, one bag of pre-shredded cheese, a packed of sliced mushrooms, and a whole, untampered-with red capsicum.
When I got home, I diced the capsicum myself (hurrah!), opened all the packets, and then got my five-year-old to assemble the rest of the ingredients (which he did with his usual panache and artistry). Only after finishing the construction of whole pizza, did I realise I had forgotten to turn on the oven.
Seriously, it's not hard, is it? Why, oh why can't I cook?! I must have a defective gene somewhere.
I guess if I wanted to put a positive spin on it, I am raising a delightful generation of young men who not only do not see a woman's place as in the kitchen, but who probably would faint with shock if they saw a woman in such a compromising position, and find it to be a most unladylike behaviour. My sons will not find any of the jokes about brides wearing white to match the white-goods funny at all. They will also have an inherent sense of self-preservation when it comes to meal prep - namely that if they don't care to do it, it may just not happen at all.
This blog post ends here because I have an almost two-year-old hanging off my arm and howling, and typing is becoming somewhat of an issue.
Thanks be to God that tomorrow is kid-free Thursday...
M xx
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