New beginnings.


Ah, a new year. New beginnings. New resolutions. New motivations.

I really had an all-star lineup of leaves turning over—my skin has finally begun to look less like a pre-pubescent teenager and more like an adult woman; we have finally derived a budget to which we can adhere, which meant freezing my J.Crew and Bloomingdale’s cards (literally, like in ice in the depths of the freezer); and my key to the gym turned up, after having been missing for several months, or at least that is what I have told myself.

So there we have it, clean skin, balanced budget and exercise regimen. You can see why I may have been bubbling with confidence when I found myself in the kitchen one evening, and decided that tackling dinner was within my grasp and went rouge.

Chicken breasts, brussel sprouts, a little olive oil and seasoning…yes, I was prepared. And with an episode of Downton Abbey queued up on my iPad, and an apron on for added effect, I was ready to conquer.

Flame on, a drizzle of olive oil, chicken in the pan, la la la. “Dinner will be ready in 20 minutes,” I practically sang to the hubs. I was feeling so empowered that not even his stunned expression  could rattle my confidence. I have totally got this.

The delicious smells, perhaps exaggerated by my own bliss, permeated our 800 square feet. La la la la.

But, hmmmm…something wasn’t quite right. I grabbed the bag of frozen chicken breasts from the freezer and reread the instructions I had followed so diligently, and repeated them in my mind. Exactly what I had done. Exactly.

But, why after 10 minutes in the skillet were the pieces of meat still nearly fr o   z    e    n…SHOOT! They were frozen. Dammit! I was supposed to have thawed them. But again, nothing in the directions pointed to that. Seriously, Perdue was making a big assumption that everyone would know this, apparently important, step!

About the time of this revelation, Dusty came to check on me and I made the gut wrenching decision to let go of my pride and pass the torch to him. After all, I had, followed the instructions given to me.

I tried, I really did.

So, as he salvaged dinner, I wrote a scathing email to Perdue, informing them of the discrepancies in the cooking directions on their packaging. I may not be able to cook, but I can read, and I can certainly complain.

How was the meal, you ask? Well, edible. I’m calling it a half victory and adding cooking back to my “needs improvement” list.

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