...you turn some into a mushy fish-like paste that's only technically edible.
It all started off promisingly enough:
Ellen and this weird girl were keeping me company in the kitchen.
I was successfully talking myself into working with this salmon that I felt like was going to swim away at any moment--headless and tailess, which only creeped me out more.
I hypocritically like my meat to no longer resemble anything living.
The orzo portion of the meal was looking quite like the photo in the recipe book said it should. These cookbooks are proof that we do not outgrow pictures.
I figured out the baking instructions (fold parchment paper in half... good... cut in the shape of a heart...what?) without a single previous origami lesson.
I thought that the happy coincidence of our heart-shaped stoneware in our kitchen meant that Lady Luck also likes to cook.
And then, in that cruel last act twist, the fish came out horribly mushy and the orzo only average tasting. My parents, bless their hearts (get it?), still ate all of their fish. Happily, since it was my own dish, I could sulkily abuse it and let it sit there.
In the exact opposite process, the upside-down pineapple cake, which threatened to smoke us all out of the house due to the juice runoff during its baking process, is actually pretty tasty, though not very pretty.
My Dad and I consulted the great oracle Google about mushy salmon and he could only tell us "Shop somewhere else!"
Something's in the works chickadees, and if you follow this blog regularly and only comment irregularly, I mysteriously recommend that you make your presence known.
Writing in tiny lettering seems to be the print equivalent of whispering. Everyone reads it.