I Have A New Mother. Her Name is Martha.

And I Have The Burns to Prove It.

4 min readJul 19


When I was little, I was not allowed in the kitchen unless it was to make Toll House chocolate chip cookies.

Toll House cookies were demanded when I had clearly done something wrong, because they knew that if I tried to make them, I would end up eating all the batter, causing me to crawl into bed with a stomach ache for days.

I hated those stupid Toll House cookies. I would trade them for a Chips a Hoy any day of the week at school, rather than to have to suck on a homemade Toll house in the cafeteria

Still, I could make that batter with my eyes closed.

But baking Toll House cookies doesn”t exactly feed a family, or a hungry spouse, and they would most likely kill a dog.

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?




Nomadic procrastinator suffering from run-on sentences-caught btwn a 9 -5; an exp passport; a 30 yr mtg;+a dog who has sep. anxiety when no oxford comma is used