I’m not a cook. I occasionally bake. Usually it’s brownies. The exact same kind of brownies that I’ve baked so many times over the years that I’m comfortable tweaking the box recipe and adding a little extra oil to make them more fudge like – which is the consistency I prefer them.

But I don’t cook. You can ask my husband – when he met me I was a Lucky Charms kinda girl. Sure I’d make the occasionally Rice-A-Roni/Pasta-Roni meal but sandwiches and cereal were my main staples. With of course the midnight snack of scrambled eggs with cheese. I attempted once to make fried chicken because he said he liked it. That is a story worthy for an entire blog post on its own – an apartment filled with smoke, me crying hysterically and my two friends laughing just as hysterically. My then boyfriend (who crazily enough agreed to marry me!) came over to a single piece of edible friend chicken (out of six), the rest of us ate hot dogs. Now for our first Valentine’s day together I made spaghetti and even went so far as having brandied pears for dessert. The brandied pears had to be lit on fire…thankfully one of my room mates took over that part and saved us from a potentially burnt down apartment.

So, to say the least, cooking and I aren’t friends. Occasionally we meet at agreed upon times where we both deign to follow the rules and ignore any inconsistencies. Like the fact that touching raw meat freaks the living daylights out of me, especially if it’s chicken. Or that I have insist on overcooking the chicken, or meat of any kind, in the fear that it will be raw and I will kill everyone with some unknown strand of food poisoning. It’s a love hate relationship. The meal loves to torture me and I hate the abuse.

Since I don’t have a job currently I have become a stay at home writer. For a while my husband was working from home so it was all good. Now he has returned to working in an office which leaves me on my own for the majority of the day. Anyone who has ever met me knows what that can lead to. Candles being left burning for an entire eight hours, freaking out over a tv show where a character with the same name of my husband died, some minor but horrific looking injury from tripping over air…all of these are relatively normal occurrences for me. Add cooking into that mix and I’m surprised my husband hasn’t locked me away yet.

Yesterday we bought pork to put in the slow cooker. This seems like a relatively easy meal to do, a la “Set it and Forget it!”. I volunteer to make dinner for today. So this morning I put the pork in the crock pot, dutifully following the instructions I had been given the night before by my husband, and extensive reading of the back of the BBQ seasoning packet. I know you’re laughing at me, but I can assure I read those instructions about fifty times to make sure I knew what I was doing before I ever even brought the pork out of the fridge.

So now the pork is sitting in the crock pot as instructed. I don’t have to do a darn thing with it for the rest of the day. This kind of cooking I could get used to. But I’m reserving my judgement until it’s on our plates for consumption as this is me and something is bound to explode, implode or otherwise go seriously wrong. Fingers crossed!

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