Chef Wannabe

I have a confession.

I fail at all things domestic. I can't really sew. I can, but I'm not a fan, and I always get tangled. I can't really cook. But I'm pro at heating things up. 

You ask me for a grilled cheese? For the longest time I just put some cheese between two slices of bread, buttered if I wasn't feeling completely lazy, and popped it in the microwave for thirteen seconds or so. That's not grilled cheese. That's nuked cheese, and although the taste wasn't completely lacking, it still sounds heinous to the tastebuds so I won't even bring that up anymore. The other day I tried an ACTUAL grilled cheese, the way my loving and oh so domestic boyfriend taught me to, and it set off the fire alarm.

My life can be chronicled in incidents like that. Whenever I'm home alone, I decide, foolishly, that it might be a good, no, GREAT idea to make spaghetti. We have coil burners. Every time I have attempted that, a few strands of spaghetti inevitably fall between the small cracks, and the stove catches on fire.

Popcorn. Many disasters there.

I believe it's hereditary. When I was little, my mother was heating up hamburgers in the oven (who does that?). Grease splattered everywhere and started a small contained fire. My mom started flipping out (duh) and told me to open the window. I was seven, and kept screaming "What's going on?!?" She answered by saying "Don't worry, honey, it's just a fire!" and opened the oven door and blew on the burgers until the blaze was extinguished. She served "flambe burgers" that night. Along with spinach. This was also during a period in which she refused to keep wheat in the house, so it was without a bun. That was, by far, one of the worst meals I've had. It was like eating a brick. 

If you're like my mother and I, you're no stranger to Chinese take-out or frequent trips to Culver's. 

Here's to everyone who has ever secretly wanted to be Emeril.

And tried.

And got a really good insurance plan after that attempt.

Enjoy these simple and hopefully delicious recipes gathered by yours truly from various magazines and cookbooks and hair-brained culinary experiments.