But there is a "u" in "truth".
Something I've realized in my lifelong quest to become a five star chef (I'm at one and a half stars right now but moving up), is that the timers are built into ovens for a very specific reason. It's not what you think, though. Actually yes it it is, they time things. Specifically how long food has been cooking. I, in my early stages of innocence and naivety (some call it ignorance), thought I didn't need to use the timers, as I could just look at the clock and know it's been around 15 minutes or whatnot. I was wrong. In fact, I was very wrong. Being that I have the short term memory of a gnat with ADHD, I consistently forget what day it is, much less how long I've had food in the oven at 425 degrees. I've finally started using the timer, but only after my apartment nearly burned down three times, and I'd completely ruined roughly 21 baked goods. (Not cookies. I don't eat cookies.) Anyway, I now have a note on my fridge with the wiggle room for specific foods in the oven. For example, pizza has 6 minutes. Jumbalaya has 11. Bread and tortillas have 1 minute and 30 seconds (I don't have a microwave so I have to make toast in the oven, shut up). The feeling you get when you realize something has been in the oven for far too long is almost as horrible as the food itself at that point. It's like you get struck by lightning and self hatred at the same time. Nothing that you speak in the ensuing minute comes anywhere close to making sense, and you're actions are completely irrational. For some reason I always try to salvage the food, such as blowing on the charcoal-esque pizza, as if my holy breath will reverse the thirteen extra minutes of 375 degree heat the pizza has suffered at my hand.
This vaguely ties in to the previous paragraph, so bear with me. While at home a week ago, I opened my pantry to find a glorious new development. There was a box of popcorn. Not just normal popcorn. Oh no. This was "Cheddar and Bacon flavored" popcorn. Now anybody that knows me is not surprised that I instantly was brought to tears. After the sobbing subsided, I canceled dinner and announced we were having popcorn instead. I threw it in the microwave and hit the popcorn button (a wonderful invention, I might add). Now since we all know that the difference between a house smelling like buttery popcorn and smelling like burnt corpses is about 24 seconds, I waited by the microwave. Normally when you nuke something, you can tell if it's going wrong because it gradually hits you, like you can see something burning, deforming, or being struck by little bolts of lightning. (Microwave tin foil to see this happen. Disclosure: Microwaving tinfoil will ruin microwave forever.) This time I had no such warning. It's as if I was donkey kicked in the face with one of the worst smells since [insert horrifying smell]. I was seized by the urge to vomit everywhere, and immediately turned off the cooking device, and opened all doors and windows. The worst part was that the popcorn wasn't even burnt, which meant that this was normal. I was enraged. Not only had this company ruined dinner for the entire family, they had sullied the name of Bacon. Unforgivable. As a result, I have sworn off popcorn for life, and have mailed a bomb to the producers of the abomination.
As anyone that has ever lived with me knows, I am engaged in a lifelong war with showers. Seven out of the top ten most destructive falls in my life have occurred in the shower. There are many reasons, but nevertheless the shower has been the cause of the majority of physical pain in my life. Just when I think I've finally conquered it, gravity flips upside down and I go careening towards the floor. I've got to say, one of the most terrifying experiences is falling through the shower curtain. When it happened I didn't completely panic because my mind saw the shower curtain as a wall with which to brace myself. What I didn't realize in that split second is that shower curtains are deceptive little bastards, and though they stop water like it's nothing, when faced with saving a falling person and their dignity, the curtain folds like the Cubs in the World Series. Upon realizing this, I immediately entered a state of panic comparable to what the Hawaiians felt during Pearl Harbor (that may be a slight exaggeration). And of course the rods that hold the shower curtains up generally have the strength of a one handed child with arthritis. Needless to say I crashed through the curtain and did my best to damage the bathroom floor. Of course the whole time I was yelling a manly roar and not screaming like a four year old girl (not true). The moral of this story is that shower curtains suck, and I have horrible balance when wet.
As many of you know, I am very picky about my writing utensils. Pencils are for people that make mistakes, so obviously I don't use them. When it comes to pens, I have strict criteria. It must be what I call an "inky pen". Even then, it has to have the right flow and distribution. I'm writing about this because I feel like it, and I just found what could be my all-time favorite pen: The Uni-ball Vision Needle. (I just realized how close virtually all pen types are to dirty jokes.) Anyway, I love writing with them, as I do with decades old quills, except with quills my handwriting turns out more like pictures form the Rorschach Test.
Fact of the Day: The electric chair was invented by a dentist.
Shout out to Amy Northrup.
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