The domestic goddess returns

So jokingly (God, I hope jokingly) ND said to me the other day "your domestic skills need some work. So how about you go out and earn the six figure salary while I stay home and look after the kids?"

Scoff. "I facebook for a living. Unless I actually work for Facebook, I don't see six figures coming up anytime soon. How about you go out and earn the big bucks in finance and I stay home and watch said hypothetical children?"

And then I added defensively, "besides I'm pretty good at domestic things..like cooking"

That was an outright lie.

So I thought I would cook a frittata tonight and dazzle him with my similarities to Nigella Lawson. Of course Nigella would probably cook something more complicated than a frittata but whatever.

I'm slaving away, doubled over boiling pots and pans. Spilling things and generally making a mess of things when I come to the ridiculously obvious epiphany that I really don't damn like doing this.

I'm hot, I'm puffy, I'm bored. The sweat is making my glasses slide off my face. And I can't walk away to watch TV or something will burn.

Other people find the process soothing, they find it relaxing trying to decipher quantities of spice. People who love to cook to destress must be some higher form of yogi, because I can't find a single thing about it that's not completely stressful. One thing goes wrong and you're like Swedish Chef, unrecoverable and talking gibberish.



I take that back. I love the Swedish Chef. He's my hero.

So back to my frittata..

(Sorry, for some reason the picture won't rotate.)

Yeah I know my frittata turned into a makeshift omelette.

ND looked it and said "Is that bubble and squeak?"

Strangely enough, it tastes okay. But it's definitely not a frittata.  So I guess I'll be the one heading out to the mines everyday?