In Misfires

I don’t cook very often because if something can go wrong, it will.  Like if I made popcorn stuffing, it would be sure to blow the oven door off the stove.  When we get together for a big dinner, everyone is wary…you’d think they were going to die of ptomaine.  I don’t like having that kind of reputation, so I don’t usually cook for anybody, not even myself.

Here are some of the things I have heard people say about my cooking:

– Oh no! not again!

– Is this roadkill?

– Postprandial prayer: Let us pray!

– No seconds…and I mean it!

– When did you make this? Last month?

– Diarrhea! Oh my god…out of my way!

– Are you sure this is cooked enough? It keeps trying to crawl off my plate!

– I swear I heard screaming when I cut into that turkey leg.

– The dog ate the leftovers and died?

– Where’s the pickaxe?

– Something in the gravy is waving at me!

– Don’t you come near me with that!

– Its behind is twitching!

– The turkey died of consumption.

I do bake a very good Jack Daniels Whiskey cake.  No complaints about that!