I Have A New Mother. Her Name is Martha.
When I was little, I was not allowed in the kitchen unless it was to make Toll House chocolate chip cookies.
Still, I could make that batter with my eyes closed.
But what could I do?
I knew my way around a kitchen, the way a platypus knows his way around a pickle ball court.
BUT thanks to modern times and helpful boxes that promise a creation in 5 minutes, there was hope, yet briefly lived.
As box after box, the glimmer of light or any heavenly hope or a promise that I would be able to actually cook just a fricken chicken,
I had a client one day spend a full 45 extra minutes with me trying to explain exactly every step to cooking a chicken in the oven.
They made me write it down,
they drew diagrams,
they made me repeat what they said.
They were sure they had finally gotten some cooking into this thick skull.
That day, I went home, well I bought a chicken — then went home, ( bc who keeps full chickens in their freezer?! Not me)
Anyway, got home with a new fresh dead chicken, from whatever make or model the nice client had instructed me to get -poundage and all, then followed the rest of their instructions; molested a chicken, and put some onions and other fowl things up its rear, all to get to the point, -that I didnt know which way they were supposed to lay in the over.
Was I supposed to put them on their back? Like a dead bug?
Or was I supposed to put them on their knees, as if the pan was a prayer rug?