In life, as a parent, you hope to pass on some of your qualities to your children. Instill certain values and such that you think will benefit them in life.
And then there are times you don’t.
It is no secret that I am not a huge fan of cooking. Mainly because everything I touch turns to charcoal. Or fire. Or is fit only for the garbage can. (And even then I feel guilty about doing such harm to an innocent object.) It is so bad that I actually was contacted by a producer at Oprah when they were doing a story on Chaos in the home and they were fascinated by my horror stories. (The story was cut, but the tradition continued.) Disaster in the kitchen is common enough that no one was shocked or surprised last night when my son calmly asked, “What should I do about the flames in the oven?” The only person who reacted with alarm was me when I shouted, “I am NOT COOKING! You probably need to check it out!” (A girl has to claim her victories and her innocence when ever she can!)
Are you getting the picture here? Me + Cooking = Disaster
No shame. No blame. Just flames. (ha! See how I did that whole rhyme thing?)
Anyway, the point.
Last night one of my children who shall not be named decided to make a pizza. When I wandered in for a piece I was a bit grumpy to see that it was gone. But wait. There was no evidence it was eaten. It was then that I found this:
I am pretty sure that was NOT what the pizza was supposed to look like. In fact, I have photographic evidence that it was supposed to look like this:
A proud moment for this Mom. Ahhhh, the sheer joy of passing down the Fire in the Kitchen gene.
But damn. I really wanted that pizza!