I Baked.

My family can cook.

I mean, really, they can all cook the mess out of stuff.

My paternal grandmother was the family cook for everyone. She was well-known for her chicken stew and poke salad. I remember many nights going to her house for supper. She’d serve tomatos and green onions, no matter what the main dish was.

My maternal grandparents spent their lives in the food industry – they even met at a restaurant. My grandfather was a cook in the Army for 20 years, and taught cooking school after he retired.

Both of my parents are the same way. My dad can grill a steak like it’s nobody’s business and I even have friends who brag on my mom’s cooking.

Now, while I did inherit some ability to cook, I have no baking skills whatsoever. None. I do not bake. Do not ask me to bake.

A few night’s after Christmas, my husband asked me to bake.

It did not go well.

Dan grew up with a mom who would whip up brownies and sweets on the spot, so he assumed I could throw some cookies in the oven, no problem!


I followed a standard recipe just fine. As I started mixing the batter, my husband says “hey, if we have some leftover, we can take to the neighbors!” Um, not so much.

I only made one big, err, MAJOR, flaw.

I didn’t have a “cookie sheet,” so I ended up using a pizza pan instead. The problem was the pan has air holes in the bottom (righteously DUMB on my part). As the cookies sat in the oven, the batter dripped through the holes. I open the door to check on them and THE OVEN WAS ON FIRE.

Like, an actual, literal FIRE.

Our smoke detectors started going off. The next several minutes were a blur, but eventually we got the fire out and the alarms turned off.

I think I will stick to regular cooking from now on.


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