Burned Dinner: One Helluva Start

I've been dreaming about the free moments I'd have tonight to get this new project off the ground. I'd have quiet. I'd have a million great ideas and nothing but time and money to get them started. Ha! (I even laugh at myself from time to time.)

I love food. It's a passion. An obsession. A money drain. A time suck. The source of my disasterous kitchen on Saturday nights. I love writing. It pays my bills. It builds my dreams. This site is my attempt to link the two, using my days as a reporter to give it some glue. And wings, sorts.

And now, the reality to this fairy tale.

I would love to paint you a picture of me in the kitchen every night with an apron and a wooden spoon, assembling a five-course meal Julia Child would be proud of. But have you been to my house? Tonight my husband works late. My first grader would rather get a root canal them come inside in weather like this. And my toddler. Well, he's being such a butthead right now, I refuse to cook for his screaming, cat-slapping self.

So I started this new era with frozen chicken nuggets. Oh, lordy, I should be ashamed! But what's worse? I burned the damn things! In between finishing a Facebook fanpage (You should be a fan of me. That would be way cool and we could ride bikes sometime, k? Click here) and pulling the 37th lego out of Boo's mouth, I forgot the nuggets. And they singed a little bit. And the worst part of this story? I fed them to the boys and they didn't say a thing.

Shocker!

So while I would have preferred to start this blog off with a recipe for those giant zucchinis you bought at the State Fair, I'm starting with an epic fail. I burned dinner and then fed it to my children. *sigh*

Welcome to my life....