When I was on the couch for an entire summer with a dislocated rib, (I will not mention which fetus made that possible,) I watched a lot of Food Network. At the time, I had 3 meals in my repertoire: Trailer Trash Burritos, spaghetti and hot dogs. As I was about to become a full-time homemaker and mommy, I thought it was time to add to that list.
I was religious about it. I learned seasonings, the proper use of kitchen tools, the proper handling of raw meat, how to baste, how to puree, ect. I called my mother-in-law for lessons and tips. I went to see Memaw with my notebook and had her show me live and in-person how to make a good pot roast.
For the past two years, I was proud of my progress. I could turn out a pretty good dinner night after night, with only a few mishaps that usually involved frying chicken.
Stupid fried chicken.
However, the Food Network didn't prepare me for this:
He is literally screaming and trying to escape my beautiful presentation of homemade lasagna, sliced zucchini and fresh tomatoes.
What would Paula Deen do? I'll have to get back to you on that. I'll tell you what Sara Thompson did:
I bought one of every kind. And I get these results every time:
Stupid Food Network.