I thought I had some semblance of kitchen experience. That all those years of by-the-book cooking made me some sort of a kitchen goddess. I thought culinary disasters were behind me. That never again would I show up for work with oil splatter turned blister, or oven burns, or tales of kitchen mishaps.
My wanting to learn to cook has nothing to do with inner Julia Child aspirations. I just wanted to go where my mom has never gone (oh, she can command a kitchen army but can never cook). I just wanted to prove to the husband that he doesn't have sole command of the kitchen.
Alas, the kitchen and I--we do not belong. And this nasty burn on my right arm is a painful reminder that I should stay clear of the kitchen god's realm.