I am a kitchentard.

I was born without the cooking gene. Then, as my mom served up Tuna Helper, chicken drumsticks and really dry meatloaf, I didn’t beat the nature vs. nurture debate by later learning any mad cooking skills.

Having four children means the opportunity to prepare meals presents itself almost daily. Plus, my husband travels for work during the week, so there isn’t even going to be ‘another grown-up’ to impress with my newly sautéed recipe.

The result?

Well, I hate meatloaf, but tonight for dinner I served the kids Banquet frozen chicken legs (I cooked them first), canned corn and frozen French fries (also cooked). Sigh. Boring, not nutritional and just…ew.

The other day I had to ‘soften’ butter for an Apple Crisp recipe mix thing I picked up because it was displayed near the apples. Cutting a stick of butter in half and placing it directly into the microwave (upright) seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea, but was in fact, upon my attempt to remove it, disastrous. I thought the ‘softened’ (um, scathing hot melted) butter was going to stay in its upright paper wrapping, but alas, it splashed all over me, the microwave, the dog, and the floor. DUH. (Note: no animals were harmed in the making of this blog post, he knows better than to be too close to me while I am ‘cooking.’)

A few days ago I made a crock pot dinner…which involves removing (in this case) chicken and dumplings and veggies from a frozen bag and placing them into a crock pot, which you then turn on. It seems this meal would be foolproof. However, I was able to create another kitchentastic dumbass disaster by, after taking the liner of the crock pot out and putting it into the dishwasher, returning all my breads to their normal spot inside the rarely-used crock pot liner thingy…and not turning it off.

The next day, when I went to take out hot dog rolls (of course I am trashy enough to make hot dogs) I noticed an odd smell. The origin of this was the fact that the hot dog rolls, cinnamon raisin bread (Pepperidge Farm- yum!), and loaf of multigrain bread were all now completely burned, blackened, and had become one with the crock pot. A solid layer of blackened plastic now lined the inside of my crock pot, and the breads had kind of melded into a half-brick hard, half doughy soft bread/plastic stew.

Which probably wouldn’t be bad, with ketchup.

‘Make Your Own Dinner Night’ is a popular theme night at our house, and it occurs when I am too tired, working on a deadline, or out of my super-gourmet meal ideas. Implemented only occasionally, it can be quite effective. “KIDS! It’s make your own dinner night!” They know the rules- eat anything you want. Waffles with peanut butter and syrup? Sure. Ice cream and chocolate fudge PopTarts? Uh- huh. Cereal by handfuls straight from the box? You betcha. Even a seven month old can appreciate the simplicity of this meal.

Try it too many nights though? And you get backlash. “Mom, it’s been make your own dinner night all week!!” (Oh, it has? Um, can you can you guys pour me some Frosted Flakes then?)

I am turning 40 next month. It is too late for me to learn how to cook. I am doomed to a life of microwavable items, take out (or preferably GO OUT), and cheesesteaks or hoagies. Randomly, since I am from Philadelphia originally, I can make a killer sandwich.

As long as I don’t keep the rolls in the crock pot.