Saturday, 06 September 1997

I can’t cook. Really, I can’t. Before you tell me that anyone can cook, allow me to tell you a little story.

I must have been about 4 years old. I had just finished one of my masterpieces in modern construction (playing with Legos) and decided it was lunch time. Usually mom was on time with lunch as it kept me out of trouble for a while, but on that day she was still busy cleaning my room.

I gently reminded her of the time, “Mom, I’M HUNGRY!”

“In a minute. I’m going to finish your room first. After that’s done, I’ll make some tomato soup.” My favorite.

I figured I could either help her out or starve to death. I chose help. Off to the kitchen I went to make lunch. Boy wouldn’t mom be surprised.

Once in the kitchen, I scaled the cupboard and got down a can of tomato soup. Jumped back down to the floor, pulled a pan out of the lower cupboard and put the can of soup in the pan.

Now how to cook this? I had watched my mom in the kitchen before, so I kind of knew what to do. I put the pan in the broiler (it was the only thing I could reach) and turned on the oven. Since I was really hungry, I turned the oven on all the way, so the soup would cook really fast. That done, I went off to play again while lunch cooked.

A short time later, there was a huge BOOM from the kitchen. Mom came running because she thought I had fallen off the counter, pulled over a bookshelf, or some other mischief. When she got to the kitchen she saw the door to the broiler blown off its hinge and tomato soup splattered everywhere. You see, I neglected to take the soup out of the can before cooking.

Ever since then, I was not allowed in the kitchen alone. To this day, I can’t cook.

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