What I cannot wrap my creative little fingers around is how in just about every other aspect of my life - crafts, writing, event planning, lying - I am about as creative and innovative as they come but when it comes to cooking or whippin' up something in the kitchen, I stare blankly, blinking... my brain completely empty of ideas.
More frequently than I care to admit, I dutifully take out some sort of meat product from the freezer in the morning before doing school drop-offs so it can defrost in time for me to make something delicious out of it come dinnertime. Yet at 5:00 on any given evening you will find me at the kitchen counter with today's raw meat sitting impatiently in front of me practically yelling COOK ME BITCH! still in its packaging, my finger poking it through the plastic, watching as it immediately regains its shape when I stop prodding.
My mind dully drifts off, back to the 80s - aww, the 80s - when everyone had waterbeds that shaped your body as you laid on them and instantly filled back up when you got off of it. Not a very good analogy to the meat but a much more pleasant thought than cooking dinner. Then there were those awful folding lawn chairs in bright colors made up of that plastic lanyard like material that you used to sit in and as soon as you got up it took way too long for the plastic to recover to its normal shape so everyone could see just how big your ass AND thighs were when you moved? Do they still make thos-- Wait. Where was I? Oh yeah. Poking the meat. *giggle*
Hmm. What do I do with ground beef *this time?* Spaghetti? We have that every week. Tacos? We have that every week. Can you do anything else with ground beef? No? Fine. Spaghetti again!
Lather, rinse, repeat with chicken and steak. Do I use the Lawry's Season Salt or Montreal Steak Seasoning? OR BOTH! Oooh, live dangerously, Megan! (And by dangerously, I'm of course referring to not so much the marinating risk-taking factor as the high levels of sodium I'm about to poison my family with.)
The few times I've stepped out of my comfort zone nothing good came of it. And definitely nothing edible. There was that online recipe for cajun something-or-other that damn near killed me when I inhaled so much pan-fried pepper I thought I was going to die, the vegetable oil fire that gave me my first experience with deploying a fire extinguisher and the infamous homemade double-boiler explosion when chocolate covered strawberries ruined Easter. Or maybe it was me who ruined Easter. The details are fuzzy. The photos are fantastic, though.
The few things I *can* make (Super hot spicy salsa and a super hot spicy salsa dip. Yeah. That's it. Don't be so fucking judgmental. Geez.) hardly make a meal but I hold onto these recipes and refuse to share them because GODDAMMIT THEY'RE ALL I HAVE. Family and friends will ask me for my dip recipe saying they love it and I'll say "Oh sure. Yeah. I'll send it to you!" secretly vowing to never EVER send it to them because then what? THEN WHAT?! I'll have nothing that I'm known for. At least in the culinary sense. You know. Other than burning shit. Including me. (Wanna see some scars?) (Sorry, that's hardly table talk.)
I suppose I can make a crockpot'd roast. But then again it never turns out the same twice. And I do pour a mean bowl of cereal. (Don't! mess! with! me!) And this one time, I made the raddest burgundy pork tenderloin EVER (even though I don't eat pork) but the second time I tried to make it... who the hell knows what happened.
HOWEVER, if you want me to decorate you a paper plate or make you a creative Solo cup for drinking, I'm your girl. So. You know. There's that.