I’m mostly blogging about this so that my parents can laugh [hi mom! hi dad!] People who know me know that I learned to cook as soon as I could reach the top of the stove and that I made dinner occasionally for my family while I was in high school and I’ve been cooking the majority of my own meals for the past five years. Never once in my life have I had a serious cooking disaster. Until the other day.
TheBoy and I decided to have baked potatoes and chicken for dinner. I scrubbed them, poked a bajillion holes in them with my fork and stuck them in a 350 degree oven. One hour later TheBoy decreed that they were still a little hard and needed another ten minutes. He nudged the heat up a bit, and then I nudged it up a little bit more. We closed the oven door and retreated to the living room where we sat for not more than two minutes when we heard *ka-poof* TheBoy and I looked at each other and then-not liking the sound of the noise-hopped up to investigate. Sure enough, one of the potatoes had exploded all over the inside of the oven. Luckily I had had the foresight to cook an extra potato for TheBoy’s lunch. And here, as proof, I give you the carnage:
And like a good adult, I cleaned the potato out of the oven yesterday.