Everyone knows I don't cook. It's not that I don't have the ABILITY to cook . . . . ok, so that's a bald-faced lie. I can't cook. I mean I've messed up Easy Mac before . . . sigh. But I can't help from thinking that maybe deep down on some base level I was just not made to be a chef.
I remember when I was about ten years old my first failed attempt at cooking. As a child I used to spend the summers with my Grandparents. They had a cabin up in the Rocky Mountains near Pikes Peak and some of my most cherished memories of time spent with my Grandparents are from those days at the cabin.
Anyway, one day I decided I wanted a baked potato. I had the potato. I had a microwave. I had seen my mom do this a million times. The answer seemed obvious. So, I threw the potato in the microwave and set the timer. I stood there for the first few seconds w/ my face nearly touching the glass watching my potato slowly revolve on the the little turn table (probably absorbing detrimental amounts of microwave radiation), when of course something else (probably something shiny) caught my eye and I lost interest in the potato and wondered off.
A few minutes go by . . . a few more . . . . and then: BOOM! CRASH! The little cabin shook. Everyone came running to find me standing there just staring at the smoking microwave, completely flabbergasted all the way down to my toes. I looked up guiltily to my grandfather, "Uh . . .that never happened when Mom did it . . ." The potato had exploded - and I don't mean that it just made a mess in the microwave. O no, I mean it EXPLODED! It blew that microwave door clean OFF! Potato guts everywhere! The poor abused appliance door lying half way across the kitchen where it had skidded to a stop.
Moral of the story: Apparently you have to poke holes in the skin of a potato before you put it in the microwave. Who knew?