>Cooking With Persnickety

>I come from a family line of amazing cooks. Unfortunately for Husby, that lineage stopped right before it got to me.

When Husby and I got married, (a whole 2 ½ years ago) I was working full time at Starbucks. My shifts were odd hours which meant that Husby either had his breakfast of coffee and a pastry on the days I opened at four am, or his dinner of coffee and a prepackaged sandwich that was being thrown away at ten pm as I closed.

The only times we actually ate dinner together was when Husby would randomly swing by after he got off work and we’d camp out in the lobby of Starbucks and attempt to catch up while scarfing down taco bell during my 30 minute “lunch”, or on the nights that I wasn’t working when we would head over to our fave pizza place with our friends.

Needless to say, there wasn’t a whole lot of cooking going on at the Hall place.

But that all changed when I said “PEACE THE HECK OUT SBUX” and Husby and I moved into our teeny tiny downtown apartment. I made it my mission to have dinner ready for my weary man when he returned home to the fort.

Alas, there was more than one night where poor Husby smiled and thanked me as he ate his dinner, all the while sweetly lying to my face about how “good” it tasted. I know he was lying. I was eating the same thing.

So I googled for easy recipes, I practiced and practiced, I called my Mother Dear over and over again begging for help, and now there is a small handful of things I can prepare that taste pretty darn good.

I however am simply not satisfied.

What if one day, way in the future, Husby and I decide to breed? I mean, what am I going to do, toss a Hot Pocket on a paper plate and teach my kid how to nuke it?

No. I need life experiences. So my mission is not to not only learn how to cook, but how to make certain things from scratch. Helping me in my endeavors will be my lovely Mother Dear.

Our first assignment was to make a simple pizza dough out of the things we already had in the house. This meant that we would be using the wrong type of flour, but whatever, we’re woman….we can DO THIS.

It’s possible that I made many unpleasant faces and whined to Mother Dear the entire time.

It’s also possible that Mother Dear has a sick sense of humor and enjoyed my misery.

At this point I was just glad that it actually resembled the picture in the cookbook.

Of course while flipping through these pictures Husby asked why it was such a weird shape and not a circle or square. “Because it’s MY pizza and I can do WHATEVER shape I want to!!!”

Don’t worry. Husby isn’t intimidated by my mood swings that easily.

Mission accomplished.

Next week, pumpkin pie…..from a pumpkin….not the freezer…not a can….a pumpkin.

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