That’s the sound of my head hitting my desk. Again.
You see, for the second time in as many months, I have left a pot on the stove until all the water boiled out and the pot was ruined. This time, the pot in question even caught fire. I was reminded of my would-be lunch when the smoke alarm commenced its piercing cries.
I actually remember thinking today as I turned on the stove that I hate having one of those “you-can-tell-she’s-been-cooking-when-you-hear-the-smoke-alarm” reputations, but had to acknowledge, even then, that it’s a reputation well deserved. I shouldn’t be allowed to leave the kitchen when something is cooking. Or enter it in the first place.
Anyone want to become my personal chef?