I am many things, but domestic goddess I am not. Today was a perfect example. I planned out a simple recipe and shopped for all the ingredients. I prepped the vegetables as I sipped a glass of moscato. Above my head, a thought bubble formed. I was envisioning the domestic bliss I was about to create with my own two hands. In my mind, my homemade minestrone soup would be on the table by 6:00, just in time to pull the artisan bread from the oven. I pictured the scene: me, in one of my cute vintage aprons, dishing out the soup into our bowls. My husband, smiling in wait for his amazing and savory supper. (For some reason, my husband in my imaginary thought bubble is wearing house slippers and puffing on a pipe while he reads the paper).
Thirty minutes later, my bubble popped as the Pyrex casserole dish I had preheated in the oven burst into a million tiny pieces. I screamed and jumped away from the spray of glass as my husband ran into the kitchen, a horrified expression on his face. See, apparently everybody knows that you cannot heat glass and then pour something colder in temperature into said glass. And by everybody, I mean everybody but myself. I now know that when the recipe says to heat a shallow dish in the oven and then pour water into the dish to make the bread crusty, the recipe means a metal pan. Stupid recipe…why can’t you be more specific?? Why can’t you assume that the person following you has the culinary IQ of 70-79, which translates to “borderline deficiency” ?
Ah, well, it all ended ok in the end. The soup was good, even if I had to leave the uncooked, glass shard-studded loaf of bread in its deathbed of broken Pyrex while we ate. Once the mess was cleaned up, I retreated to my computer to write my tale of domestic woe. My husband brought me a second glass of wine and thanked me for the dinner. He always takes care of me. I try to switch our roles from time to time, because sometimes I feel like such a hopeless case. I keep thinking one day he will complain that I don’t do enough “wifely” things but it hasn’t happened yet. Perhaps it’s because he’s an incredibly sensitive specimen of a man. Or maybe it’s just that he fears the mayhem and chaos that will most certainly follow my efforts.
*all images via weheartit.com*