I am skeptical when my parents promise me that they didn't drop me on my head as an infant because I do things that are so stunningly ridiculous that even I amaze myself. But, unfortunately, my stupidity knows no bounds. It can manifest in cooking, selecting field trips for my kids, or choosing to retrieve a balloon from a ceiling fan, to name a few.
Yesterday's fiasco was brought to us by Big Hot Dog.
Low on time and imagination, I made pigs in a blanket for dinner. Before anyone goes judging my choices, go to the Recipes section of this site. Also, remember we are here to support each other, and I REALLY suck at cooking.
In an attempt to counteract my main dish, I prepared fresh veggies as a side dish. Unfortunately, I was peeling like a madwoman when the timer went off. I opened the oven door, and with a WHOOSH of hot air straight in my face, I found my eyelashes adhered together (mascara + hot air = blindness).
Rendered mostly sightless and with a blistering hot cookie sheet in hand, I desperately felt around the countertop with my empty hand for a space to rest my searing dinner before I dropped it on the floor. By the grace of Piglet, no one got hurt, but it gave me a reason to despise cosmetics.
In the "blinding" excitement, I forgot to check the pigs to see if they were fully cooked. Usually, for me, a blackened exterior indicates a meal's doneness, but there have been a few occasions when I have served food of a toasty brown hue.
When dishing out dinner, I picked up the pigs and surprisingly discovered that they had a rather doughy consistency. Thus, I struggled with my nightly moral question. Will this make my family Pepto Bismol sick or require an Emergency Room visit if consumed?
Used to make Sophie's Choice caliber decisions at dinner, I served my daughter the less doughy version. I took one for the team and consumed a suspiciously "chewy blanket."
I'm here today to say I'm no worse for wear. Was the food cooked appropriately? Does my stomach have such low standards that it's almost impossible to poison me?
The world will never know.
Unless they find me dead next to a raw pig in a blanket, of course.