My father was a terrific chef. At work he turned out culinary delights. And when he was home, mouth-watering treats, such as shrimp scampi, roast beef, and baked clams, graced our table.
But at the end of this good cookery, crusted bowls, pots, pans and spatulas littered the landscape. To me that meant–unless you wanted to be the dishwasher, you’d better stay out of the kitchen.
Consequently, I never hosed down a sink or learned how to cook–which worked well until I married a guy who also couldn’t find his way around a frying pan.
Well, how hard can it be? I asked myself, after the first disaster that involved a charred steak, billowing smoke and a blackened broiler. Grab a cookbook and learn.
Soon Betty Crocker and I were great pals, and aided by her fabulous recipes and my father’s occasional advice, I eventually morphed into an okay cook.
But my heart wasn’t in the kitchen. To tell the truth, I’d rather have been anywhere else.
Luckily for me, I’ve always had super friends and wonderful relatives who love to feed anybody who loves to eat. Over the years, I’ve frequently left Carpenter Country to enjoy their fantastic meals.
So today, before I do anything else, let me thank everyone for helping me stay out of the kitchen.
I can hardly wait to visit each of you–again and again and again.
Or as often as you’ll have me.