Kitchen Rebellion

I was feeling a little rebellious today, so I used Mr. Fancy Chef's bread knife to cut celery AND cauliflower. I know! Culinarily Challenged, rise up! Let's show those kitchen snobs we don't have to follow their rules! In kitchening, there are no rules!

What?...There are? Oh, you call them recipes? Thought those were like guidelines. No? Very specific...huh. Who knew?

Anyway, back to me, I washed the veggies and reached over to the trusty old knife block and out came the big, Buggidy-Buggidy Knife. I call it that because that's the noise it makes when it slices my skin, unlike the smooth "swip" sound of the un-serrated type of WMD cleaving through my fingers or in one instance, the skin slightly above my knee. Long story, don't ask. The kitchen is full of Weapons of My Destruction, trust me. Everything within 20 feet of the hotbox hates me.


Where was I? Oh, yeah, so instead of putting it back and choosing a smaller and probably more appropriate knife, I went with my bad self and chopped those suckers up. I even made up a song about it, which I will spare you from, but just know that I was feeling pretty full of myself. Then the cat started fussing at me. (No, it had nothing to do with my singing. Jerk.) She started staring at me and yelling all bossy-like. I admit it. I gave the cat an extra can of meat so she wouldn't tell Mr. Fancy Chef what I did.


The last time Mr. Fancy Chef was around while I was forced to make my own eggs lest I starve to death, he made some comment about my cooking being similar to when a demon touches a bible: all smoke and sizzle, but no one wants to touch the results. I am sure he meant that with the utmost love and respect. And I'd like to say this is a case of "if you can prove you are all thumbs you don't have to lift a finger", but it's not. I can't cook. (We've covered this.)

I have issues beyond that which modern medical therapies can handle, but I do what I want. (And I want to stay out of the kitchen,)