La La How The Life Goes On

Flop Chef

Posted on: December 4, 2011

Tonight I went to my awesome friend B’s Pampered Chef party. Those of you who know me and my mad kitchen skills will probably need a few moments to pull yourselves together after reading that.

All set now? Yes, it’s true. I, Mama, went to an event about cooking. I had a great time, met some really great people, ate twice my weight in onion dip; so all in all a successful night. But I have to confess to a few things:

–When the lady said she was going to use a mandoline, I very seriously thought for a minute that she was, you know, going to give us a little “oh Susannah” or “Polly Wolly Doodle” with a small guitar-like instrument. Color me surprised when she pulled out a Food Guillotine and began executing zucchini like her name was Robespierre. Holy crap! People have these things in their homes!? Near children?! That thing is a one-way ticket to a 4-fingered hand. At least for me. Like, where does one store one’s mandoline? I’m thinking it should have rifle-like guidelines, like bullets in a box in a separate, locked location. Those blades “that just slide in and out very simply” would be in my house about 10 minutes and I’d take off a layer of skin by accident. No thanks. What else you got?

–Really cute baking pans and state of the art cooling racks that neatly stack so you can save counter space when baking those multiple batches of cookies. Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, because apparently there are people who not only bake but who bake in Multiple Batches. Who knew? I have our one rack onto which those Pillsbury pre-decorated sugar cookies fit quite nicely. Even semi-burned.

–Space age cheese graters that flip up and over and what-have-you so you can get the precise grate you seek. Very cool to look at, but when the lady asked for volunteers to come up and try the grater I immediately felt transported back to freshman Microeconomics and I haven’t done the reading because it was so effing boring and please god don’t notice me don’t call on me don’t notice me don’t call on me. Because if I had been invited up I would have first picked up B’s phone and dialed 9-1- just so we could have a head start on the inevitable ER call to reattach my distal phalanges.

So I had fun, I looked through the catalog for something to buy but kept thinking, “what would I use a measuring cup with no-spill pour spout for again?” and reconfirmed for myself that I am not a chef, pampered or otherwise. I was thinking my attendance at a cooking event is akin to sending Scottish Gandma to a sarcasm symposium. Or Baby Sister to an overcautious convention. Or Newt Gingrich to a sensitivity and fidelity workshop. One of these things is not like the other.

But no matter, because I came home (a little early since it had been a long day with Baby Sister in the ER after smashing her face on the hardwood floor and her nose growing to twice its normal size; see above overcautious remark), to find our house smelling deliciously of pumpkin bread.

Bread which the lovely Baby Daddy not only baked, but baked in multiple batches.

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1 Response to "Flop Chef"

I am so honored that you, a non cook, came to my cooking party. I was hoping for a little less cooking demonstration, and a little more onion dip socializing. But I had fun nonetheless. Thank you a gaziliion times over for coming!

xoxo
your baking friend,
b

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