I am so accustomed to being wrong. People tell me I am wrong all the time.
They say I pronounce words wrong, and I shrug.
I am a linguist . . .
They say I load my dishwasher wrong.
I offer them the job . . .
But in the kitchen, I am usually right. I love to cook from scratch and invent recipes. I love to eat and watch others loving eating. Since all my kids are spoiled with extraordinary food, they all have learned how to cook, at least the basics of my secrets, and have begged for my recipes, freely given, before they would move out — even all four of my sons.
So-o-o-o, when I get it wrong in the kitchen, I am miffed at myself. No excuse. You know how to do this and you just didn’t do it.
That’s how I talk.
How ironic that since I believe in no excuses in the kitchen, today the photo challenge should be “wrong”. Sighs.
Today I burned a whole pan of rolled sugar cookies. These are the fiddly ones you bake only when the grandkids are present, but I volunteered to donate these for a charity function, so had a nonchalance that proved expensive:
What can I say?
I could make excuses about an important phone conversation,
but I know to take the timer with me on such occasions.
But I didn’t.