Half-Baked

We had some very special, very new friends over for dinner on Friday night. As we all well know, I DON'T COOK. Thank God my Renaissance Man does. We'd all go hungry around here otherwise -- or survive on a diet of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese with turkey bacon and a side of Oreos.

Our friends were bringing a scrumptious salad -- complete with edamame -- so I decided the least I could do was offer up a dessert.

As the vacuuming and floor scrubbing began to consume the day, however, I decided a box cake was about the best I could muster.

But I thought I'd add a little twist -- fresh strawberries! And if my cake didn't taste very good, I reasoned, surely I could at least make it look good.

(Go on, I can hear you all giggling.)

Suffice it to say that I will never compete on the Ace of Cakes. Do you know how incredibly impossible it is to transfer a cake from pan to serving dish without completely destroying it in the process? Or how frustrating it is to ice a cake without tearing off large chunks and spreading them into the mix? On the advice of my best friend, I bought a pick (a pick!) so I could draw pretty lines around the circumference of my finished product. If I'd used that pick, however, the entire intricately constructed mess would have imploded -- pulleys, levers, and all.

Cake decorating is not my forte.

Neither is cake baking. From a BOX. Pathetic in so many ways...

When I pulled the cakes from the oven, I neglected to test their "done-ness."

And the result, my friends, was a couple of soggy-middled cakes. I determinedly attempted to scoop the wet batter out and fill the empty spaces with fresh strawberries.

It was a most humbling experience. One that most certainly shouldn't have ended up displayed on a pedestal.

I do have some skills. I can sing (or at least I used to be able to before age turned me from a first soprano into a bass). I can write (sometimes with a hint of clarity). I can diaper and bathe four kids under the age of five with the grace of an Olympic gymnast (almost). I know the lyrics to every 80s song that was ever written. My toenails are generally clean.

But I can't cook.

Anything.

Period.

There's really nothing more to say.

Excuse me now while I get my ass out of this kitchen and move it to somewhere more fitting.

The couch looks good.