When I put try fifteen new recipes by cooking them together on my DZP list, I envisioned myself sitting on the kitchen counter while Sam would feed me spoonfuls of some brilliant sauce he had invented. The lights would be dimmed, we’d exchange kisses in between, and maybe we’d even light some candles and put them somewhere in the background where I wouldn’t accidentally whip my hair through them as I’d flip my hair back in a sexy manner (you know, as one does). I’d sip a glass of red wine, and would in no way be involved in any of the actual cooking taking place.
Because I’m a terrible cook.
The last time I fried up a steak Sam needed power tools to cut it. Sam, being the loving (lying) husband that he is, plowed his way through it and tried to convince me it wasn’t that bad, but was far less convincing when trying to assure me ‘it probably (bluuuurgh *gasp*) wasn’t the chick… (*hiccup*) …chicken (bluuurgh!)’ merely a week later. Doctor’s verdict: salmonella.
(In case you were wondering, I dodged these bullets because I very rarely eat meat).
So, when Sam said him doing all the cooking while I just sat there would be cheating, my heart sank. ‘But…’ I whimpered, but Sam had his Stern Face on. I kicked an imaginary can and sighed ‘howkay’ not unlike our 6-year-old would.
‘We’ll pick something easy.’
‘Easy like pasta?’ I sneered, thinking back to the time he promised me ‘a monkey could cook pasta’ and I managed to transform it into a black clump of non-deliciousness. I could tell by the look on his face that he was thinking about the same thing.
‘Maybe… maybe some sort of dessert. And you… stir things’ He backpedaled quickly.
We decided on cheesecake. And here it is (I stirred everything that went in it)!
Now let us pray that the homemade pizza night we have planned for Monday will be another success…