This is a little awkward, isn’t it? It is for me at least. I’m writing to people who have not yet started to join me in my goal. But here I am anyway — I’ll begin with the faith that one of you will come join me some day, and then hopefully a few more. So maybe we should use this entry for two things. One — to start off with a first memory prompt and share from me, that likely no one will join me in, but at least it gets my ball a’rollin. And two — when some precious, dear person finds my lonely site and finds it worthwhile to join, introduce yourself to me in the comments! I would love to get to know any other “writer” who’s as weird as I am in my endeavor to capture my life through remembered stories.
So let me start with our first Memory prompt:
Share a time you had an epic cooking fail.
I had just gotten married about one month before. So far we’d been eating normal newly-wed meals like frozen corndogs, pasta, cereal, etc. My memories of my parents however have always included cooking. My dad is a chef (or was — he’s kind of retired now) and my mom was a stay-at-homer who spent a lot of time in the kitchen, since she didn’t believe in serving “store-bought” food to her family. That is legit how I grew up describing food that wasn’t homemade. Store-bought bread, store-bought pies, even store-bought butter. It makes me laugh now, but that is definitely how my siblings and I described packaged foods. I married young, so I actually went from living with my parents straight to living with my husband. You can imagine how transitioning from homemade bread to frozen corndogs felt.
Well actually, it felt kind of delicious, but not for a month or more straight. I wanted to impress my husband, I wanted to cook for him like my mom and dad cooked for my family. I decided to make Chili. I think the exact recipe I was using was called “Just Like Wendy’s(R) Chili.” It was from All Recipies I think, in case you want to look it up. It actually turned out quite delicious, after the initial fail.
I dropped the tablespoon of olive oil in my pot and let it start heating as I got busy chopping the onions and opening cans of tomatoes. (Author’s note – please pronounce that like “toe-mah-toes”) Then I returned to my pot, squiggled the oil around with my rubber spatula and plopped the ground beef in. I wish my story could have some sort of climax, but nope. Instant fail. Smoke immediately filled our kitchen from the too-hot oil and, being that we lived in a 480 sq. ft. apartment, the whole place was soon affected. Our fire alarm went off, so we ran around opening windows and then (face-palm) the front door. Of course (since we lived in a complex) the whole house’s fire alarms start going off, neighbor’s places and all.
I was mortified. My husband couldn’t disable the alarms himself so he had to call the fire department. Men in full fire proof suites came jogging in to the rescue and laughed at my cooking attempt. I tried to play it off cool and tell them it just got too steamy from the meat, but they joked anyway. “Smells good in here! Joe wouldn’t like it though – too many onions.” That made me feel a little better at least. Also, I felt redeemed when the chili turned out tasting great. Too bad my husband actually doesn’t like ground beef, hehe. Whoops.
Hope to see you on here again! And don’t forget to follow me if you enjoyed my story 🙂