My mother tried to teach me how to cook today. It’s something I’ve been putting off for a while, for two fundamental reasons: 1) Cooking, (like sewing, knitting, putting up Christmas trees and fake-smiling in a pink dress after five hours at one of my parent’s social outings) is not something I do particularly well. 2) I cannot get myself to put any effort into cooking, because I can perfectly see myself living off of scrambled eggs, Pop Tarts and Japanese take out for the rest of my life.
Unfortunately for me, mothers are rather good at arguing. And when they aren’t, they bring up the dad as reinforcements. To make a long debate short, dad finally convinced me after pointing out that he had eaten take out for all of his young adult life and had ended up with ulcers. And then E. Coli.
I won’t go into what followed – suffice it to say that it involved a spoon in the microwave, smoke, screaming, my pantless brother running around the kitchen wielding a lightsaber and my being confined to my room.
Seriously. Who knew metal wasn’t supposed to go in microwaves?