Dinnertime came again last night. It's relentless. Every night, it's the same collision between the need to eat and my inability to put something in the oven without setting off the smoke detector. In the past three weeks, I've boiled a meatloaf in it's own oil (apparently it's important to get the low fat ground beef) and set chicken legs aflame. I tried to make a pot roast, only to discover that this involves more than taking a roast of beef and baking it in a pot.
I'm not sure where this standoff with the oven started, only that it's gone on for as long as I can remember: When my sister came to visit me at my first apartment in Philadelphia, she found an abandoned baked potato in the oven. "Is this yours?" she asked, poking it with a fork. "No," I admitted sheepishly, "it must belong to the old tenant." I'd been in the apartment for six months and never seen it.
Maybe if I'd glazed pottery in my youth, or participated in some other activity that involved putting things into heated boxes and predicting how they'd transform I'd be better at this, but the truth is, I could convert our oven to an auxiliary storage cabinet for my collection of pretty pasta bowls and spend the rest of my life a happy girl.
Is that so wrong?