Blame it on the paper bag ....



It all started harmlessly, why not try to make it easier to cook dinner?

I polled my Facebook friends about their ideas regarding those fresh food delivery places. I settled on one and placed my order, excited to not have to think about what to make for dinner. Hooray!

The box arrived on Monday and I unpacked the cute brown grocery bags all neatly labeled with the recipe ingredients inside. It was something I'd envision Rachel Ray or some other famous chef doing to their foods they stored in their fridges.

I pulled out the mustard and maple glazed pork ingredients. There were gnarled-looking Fingerling potatoes in the bottom of the bag. I was ready to do some prepping as I gathered my Mack truck-sized cutting board and what I hoped was the veggie knife. How clever I thought I was when I put aluminum foil on the bottom of the baking pan. Au Contraire!

It will come back to haunt me in a bit.

I tossed the potatoes in the olive oil completely forgetting any high school Chemistry lesson I'd learned on oil viscosity.

As I cooked the pork cutlets, smoke curled up from the middle of the stove. An acrid smell wafted through the air and I ran to open several windows nearby. Too late. The smoke detectors went off and "Nagging Nelly" that's what I call the voice screamed "Fire! Fire!"

Did I mention that my husband who has a home office was on a conference call right then? He ran out of the house, caught his little toe in the door corner and broke it all while maintaining the conversation with his client. Ouch! To add to the melee, he was accompanied by our quivering dog as our cat disappeared for the hinterlands.  Since we don't know how to gag Nelly, we had to wait for the smoke dissipate to make her be quiet.

After all of that, I have to say that  the good news is my husband is okay. Dinner was delicious, and a valuable lesson was learned,.the ordering of fresh meals is a faster, and adventurous way to cook.


But to my writing critique group, whom many of them are huggers, sorry if I smelled like a three-alarm fire. Next meeting night I'll order take-out.   



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