I cooked and nobody died.

I’m not sure Tyson knew what he was getting himself into when he married me. Yes, there had been a disastrous Valentine’s dinner, but I think he believed that deep within me, there was a cook that wanted to be freed. I’m sure there are homes where a balanced meal is put on the dinner table every night by a loving wife who isn’t afraid of oil jumping at her. Our home is not one of those.

Our first full day in Logan, I woke up early, determined to make pancakes for us. They were supposed to be a symbol that everything was going to be okay, that Tyson wouldn’t starve because I could cook. Now, these weren’t elaborate pancakes. That first morning in Logan, there was a box of Hungry Jack pancake mix that told me to, “Just add water,” and me in our little kitchen. Somehow, I misread the directions and added oil instead of water, and then it wasn’t just me and the pancake mix in the kitchen. There was a husband that had been alerted by the burning smell (that stayed in our apartment for days), a burnt pan, and a crying wife. Since then, I’ve made some underwhelming bowls of spaghetti and a myriad of turkey sandwiches. Come Thursday, I wanted a real meal for us.

I defrosted some chicken and put some rice in the rice cooker. Some garlic salt, lemon juice, and another burnt pan later:

Then Tyson pretended to die from eating the food I’d made:

Then he admitted to enjoying it and even asked for seconds:



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