Anyone Can Cook

I had everything for a sandwich out on the counter when I decided I wasn't in the mood for salami. I decided to prove to myself (and the world) that I can cook!

"Anyone can cook," as Gusteau in Ratatouille says.

I have never met Gusteau, as evidenced by his statement that anyone can cook. I think I fall in the category Remy argues, "Anyone can cook but that doesn't mean anyone should!"

I decided on a very basic meal and assembled my ingredients. I was in luck! We had everything.

So I began, step by step to assemble my--never mind, I'm not telling you what I didn't actually make.

It's not that I didn't want lunch. It's not that I didn't how to make lunch. It's not that I couldn't make lunch. No, it was the thoughts and questions rolling around in the back of my head.

How do I know when it's done? When it looks like you'll eat it. But what if it isn't done all of the way? What if I get food poisoning and die? It's not working. This isn't what it's supposed to look like. I did something wrong. This isn't safe.

So I changed what I was making. Bonus points for thinking on my feet, right? Yet the questions and doubts continued.

This doesn't look right. Will I smell it if it starts burning? What if I burn the house down? Where is the fire extinguisher? Is it supposed to do that? I don't think this is right. I'm not eating this.

I gave up. I turned off the stove, poured my epic fail into a garbage bag, and took it out to the street. Salami sandwich it would be.

You better learn to like P, B, and J because that's what you'll be eating for the rest of your life. Your kids will be the one with the mom who can't cook. You better make a lot of money so you can afford to eat out regularly because PBJ and frozen lasagnas are going to get old fast. Gusteau lied.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to smack something in frustration or cry in embarrassment. Maybe both.

The kitchen was littered with the dishes from my lunch fail and I sat at the table pouting, salami sandwich on my plate.

Katie.
Not in the mood, God.
Why are you listening to the enemies lies?
You mean the truths?
They're lies. You can cook.
Do you not smell that? Were you not watching me make a mess?
You are a mess. But a beautiful mess. Do you want to know what you did wrong?
I know what I did wrong: I tried to cook.
You didn't wait. Everything you did--except switching "recipes" in the middle--was correct. But you didn't wait. Cooking takes time. Learning to cook takes time.
If You're going to tell me it's like fishing, I don't want to hear it. Not a fisherman, fisherwoman nor a fisher-of-women. Sorry.
Why are you swallowing the lies? Toss them out like you did that half-cooked meal. Be done with them. All of them.

Katie V. GPS

Usually battles of Katie Vs. GPS are victorious. Common sense trumps machine, right?

Yesterday I tried to outsmart my five year old GPS yet again. I lost. Something about having never been to that town before should have clued me in to the fact that it was not a good idea. The "seven hours to destination" didn't turn off my creative mind either. Since I needed to go east (seven hours east), I decided to turn on the east-bound side of the highway rather than the west-bound like Eunice (my GPS) was telling me.

Well, Eunice is persistent and after a few miles of "Make a U-turn" and "Turn around when possible," I decided to pull over in the parking lot of a country Baptist church and check the rest of her directions.

Going west to get east made no sense. Going west one mile to pick up a straight-shot east-bound freeway did make more sense. Eunice was right. Although the logic seemed backwards, the directions were correct. Going west was a short jog out of the way that would lead directly to my destination... in seven hours. I made a U-turn when possible.

Sometimes God and I argue like I do with my GPS. For some reason I have this tendency to think I'm smarter, my common sense more sound, and my ideas better. So I turn east to get east. Surely God's directions to go west were a detour but the road isn't closed anymore.

Except, unlike me, God sees the full set of instructions. He knows about the freeway one mile west and the direct shot, 70mph, it'll take me to my destination.

Sorry, Lord. I did it again. I deliberately ignored Your directions and followed my own. I thought I knew a better way. I was wrong and lost. Thank You for being persistent and not giving up on me.

<>< Katie

Clean Up on Aisle Twelve

I'm thinking about updating my blogger profile to read, "My name is Katie, and I single-handedly keep security camera men from falling asleep on the job."

It was the summer after I graduated high school.  Mom and I had gone to Bed, Bath, and Beyond to pick up some stuff for my dorm room.  Among those items, plastic crates.  You know, the ones that serve almost no purpose in real life and shouldn't be found anywhere but in a dorm room.  I had three homemade wooden boxes (that leave purple and turquoise paint everywhere they sit) and opted to buy two plastic ones, too.  They were in a cute display in the breezeway between the two front doors of the store.  I grabbed two, and we kept shopping.

While we were checking out, Mom and I noticed the plastic crates we'd grabbed were less than perfect.  I took them out the door (no, the alarm didn't go off) and went to exchange them.  I set my two crates on the display and began searching for unbroken ones.  Since this was in the entryway, the automatic door opened and closed every time I moved.  Kind of annoying, but not really a big deal except for the fact that one of the crates had been displaced.  When the door opened, it caught the corner of the crate.  When it closed, it pushed the crate further out of place.  Of course, that one misbehaving crate hit the other crates in the display.  Since I kept moving, the door kept opening and closing, and the crates kept flying all over the entryway.  The entire display tumbled onto the floor creating a fire hazard and almost hitting me in the face. 

I wasn't really sure what to do.  I couldn't stop the display from toppling over just like I couldn't stop the door from opening.  I stood there with my arms in the air, triggering the motion sensor yet again.

I looked through the window to my mom and the cashier, both of whom had stopped what they were doing to search out the cause of this racket.  "And we're letting her go to school 900 miles away," I heard Mom say.

I lost a war with a plastic crate display.  A few war wounds, but I lived to tell the tale.  It has been three years and I have still not shown my face in that Bed, Bath, and Beyond again.
<>< Katie

This Means War!

In case I need any more incentive to update my blog, my friend Kevin has challenged me to a blog war. I don't really understand why Mr. Kassakatis believes he's going to win this war. Mean, my name is a dangerous weapon while his is the inflammation of the kassaka. What on earth is a kassaka?

<>< Katie Ax-Your-Face