My culinary skills have always been mint

I should be a chef. That's the main thing I have realised this weekend. On Friday, I had my first ever attempt at cooking homemade soup. I got OCD-ish about the weights and stuff but I wasn't following a recipe of any kind. I wish I wouldve written down the weights of stuff because the soup turned out to be fecking amazing. All I know is that I bought nearly every green vegetable known to man from Morissons and that my trolley looked too cool for school. In fact, yesh. I am going to write down the shopping list because it was just too good to not be documented

- Kurly Kale
- Spinach
- Celery
- Sprouts
- Cabbage
- A bottle of Blossom Hill White Zinfandel
- A box of wholemeal Rusks. Yep. Baby food :)
- 80 laxatives
- A cucumber

lol. That is the most paffetik shop ever hahaha.

So, tonight I am going to cook vegetable chilli and have it with some salad. My vegetable chilli is nearly as wicked as the stew I make that doesn't have any sort of meat or potato in it haha. It is basically vegetables that I cook the shit out of and then add stock and cook it a bit more! I am not good at cooking for certain times and knowing when something is properly cooked so I normally wait until it starts sticking to the bottom of the pan or until I can smell burning. That's when it is done. Hahahahaha.

My cooking skills have not just appeared overnight though. I have always been amazing, it is a fact. Leb me tell you a little story from when I was about 13.

Mummy dearest cooks some of the most kickass spaghetti bolognaise (I fecking hate that word) you have e'er tasted: I miss that shit now that I have the no spaghetti rule and now that I am a vegetablearian. Lifes a bitch.
Anyways, so now you know that her bolog is the dogs bollogs (ah I'm so gifted), you can understand exactly why I needed to have some of the leftovers for my supper. Come on people, I've heard of stranger things at supper, trust. In fact, I've eaten some madass shit many times. There is one paricular time that my father loves to tell anybody who will listen to him about. All I had was sprouts and custard. Jeez mate, get over it! :")

erm yeah. So I didn't know how to warm the shit up so I decided to ask Daddy dearest. He gave me the simple reply, "just put it on a plate and warm it up". Apparently, this is a simple and fool-proof instruction, right? WRONG.
I did as I was told and then went back into the living room to finish watching Bananas in Pyjamas. La la la. "bananas in pyjamas, are coming down the stairs. Bananas in pyjamas are coming down in pairs"

KABOOM SMASH SPLAT BANG

I run into the kitchen and what I was greeted with was absolute disaster. Spaghetti splobbed on the ceiling, juice on the Walls, mince on the carpet (I hate people that have carpets in their kitchen. Erm. Stupidddd!)

apparently, my darling father meant to put the plate in the microwave. I had put it onto the gas ring.

I was crying tears of fear because I was scared of the trouble I would get in. I think there's some sort of prior permission rule when it comes to redecorating your parents' kitchen. Stupid rule but a rule nonetheless.

Dad came running in soon after to find me, stood there with a confused, tear stained face. He took one look at the carnage and then a look at the unused microwave. He saw that the gas ring was on and that their were bits of plate wedged in the ceiling and he creased up.

I think that if any moment could define 'LMFAO', this would be it


And that, my friends, is where my culinary wizardry first gained it's status of being feckin' legendary