Ya Know What I Was Thinking?

What's Cookin'?

Fire extinguishers are heavy, y'know?

Just kidding. I mean, they are heavy, but I rarely actually need it. Rarely. See, I'm one of those guys that can burn water—and I really don't care, because I hate cooking. I hate cooking like I hate doing fractions. Funny story about fractions: I can put an x and y together to get the computer to make coffee, just about; My 4th grader asked me to explain fractures and I looked like a monkey humping a football. I contemplated just burning the textbook, but I figured I should save the fire extinguisher; it was spaghetti night that night.

So yeah, my love affair with cooking. That would entail pulling hair and vicious spankings, if there was one. We'll call it my relationship—another term that hides all manner of abusive sins. Cooking and the holidays. Go hand in hand, right? Sure they do! My wife makes pies, delicious potato soup, these little cookie cups you put no-bake cream cheese filling in. I make anger rollups dipped in hatred sauce. That's not fair, I can make a mean mac-n-cheese with fried wieners. Bur who's eating picnics on New Years Eve?

I just don't understand the rhythm of it I guess. I don't understand any rhythm, actually. I dance like an epileptic and sing like a wounded cat. Even my metronome can't keep a beat. So how am I supposed to mix, stuff, place in oven, mix, put on stove, take out of oven, let cool, warm up, mix some more, remind self where fire extinguisher is, mix, throw up hands in air, open the oven-cum-incinerator, curse, curse some more... AUGH! I have stress just thinking about it.

Why am I writing about all this? Because I'm hungry, and my wife doesn't feel good. The leftovers are gone from Christmas. Even the cold mac-n-cheese is gone. (Hey, don't judge; I can eat a mess of cold mac-n-cheese! It's gourmet for me.) I'm reduced to prowling the kitchen and looking for something edible—pizza rolls or something, maybe a jelly sandwich. Food is on my mind, but so is how flammable the curtains are. So I'm complaining, and gnawing on the bones of my own irritation.

But I am hungry, so I reckon I ought to wrap these ramblings up. Quickly, too, because the grilled cheese I started a paragraph ago has now become a road flare. Gotta run; misplaced the fire extinguisher again!