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You know, they say the way to a person's heart is through their stomach. Well, for me, the way to my heart is through a takeout menu. I've got a collection of menus that rivals a food critic's. It's like my own version of culinary Tinder. I tried explaining my love for takeout to a nutritionist once. She said, "You need to cook at home for a healthier lifestyle." I replied, "Have you seen the calorie count on those delivery apps? Cooking might be a danger to my health!"
But I've got takeout strategy down to a science. I rotate between different restaurants, so the delivery people don't start recognizing me. I'm like a secret agent of the food world, protecting the anonymity of my takeout habits.
And when people ask me if I can cook, I proudly say, "Nope, but I can order like a pro!
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Hey, everybody! So, my ghostwriter gave me a little note, and it simply says "can't cook." And let me tell you, my relationship with cooking is like a bad episode of a cooking show. You know, the ones where the kitchen looks like a war zone, and the chef is just praying the smoke alarm doesn't go off. I tried to make spaghetti the other day. Simple, right? Boil water, add pasta. Well, I managed to mess it up. I set off the smoke detector boiling water! I didn't even know that was possible. The smoke detector in my kitchen has trust issues now.
And don't get me started on chopping vegetables. I can't tell the difference between parsley and cilantro. I invited some friends over for a fancy dinner, and I served them a salad that tasted like a herb garden exploded on it. They were so polite, though. One friend even said, "Wow, this is... interesting." Translation: "Did you even taste this before serving it?"
Cooking for me is like playing a high-stakes game of "Will I set off the fire alarm or order takeout?" Spoiler alert: takeout wins every time.
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I recently tried following a recipe. You know, one of those step-by-step guides that promises a delicious outcome. Well, my version of following a recipe is like trying to solve a Rubik's Cube blindfolded. I get confused, frustrated, and in the end, everything looks a bit off. I was attempting to make cookies. Simple, right? But instead of chocolate chips, I used hot sauce. Yeah, spicy chocolate chip cookies. Let's just say, it's a taste that wakes you up faster than a double shot of espresso. My friends tried it and said, "Wow, these are... bold." Translation: "Did you mistake the hot sauce for vanilla extract again?"
I've come to realize that recipes are more like guidelines for people who know what they're doing. For me, they're like a treasure map written in a language I don't understand. X marks the spot, but the spot is probably the fire station where I'll have to apologize for another kitchen mishap.
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I've accepted that I can't cook, but I've become the master of the microwave. Seriously, I can make anything in there. I've even figured out how to make cereal exciting. Step one: pour cereal in a bowl. Step two: put it in the microwave for 10 seconds. Voila! Warm cereal, because who needs cold milk? Microwaving has become my culinary superpower. I have a friend who's a chef, and he invited me over to cook together. He's chopping, sautéing, doing all these fancy moves with knives. Meanwhile, I'm standing there, pressing buttons on the microwave like I'm launching a spaceship.
My friend asked, "What are you making?" I replied, "Microwaved greatness!" It's all about that beep-beep-beep symphony that signals my meal is ready. Forget the oven; the microwave is my kitchen symphony conductor.
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