On a normal night Jon does all of the cooking and I’ll do all the clean up. I’d much rather whip up a batch of cake pops than some chicken cutlets any day.
Sidenote: I’m convinced Jon will use as many dishes, pots and pans as humanly possible when cooking since I’m the one that ends up cleaning them. Like the time he made the pasta sauce in one pan and then poured it over top the pasta that was in another pot. So that made TWO pots that were now dirty with sauce instead of just one. He claims that this was necessary to the integrity of the pasta. I disagree.
Back to the story:
So last night we had planned for tacos and I love tacos. I literally texted my friends after work “It’s taco night! I’m so excited!”
It’s that serious.
When I got home from work Jon was in a nesting mode, cleaning out all of the closets in the apartment of things that he no longer needed. So I decided that I would be awesome and I’d go ahead and start on the tacos.
I browned the beef, I cut the tomatoes, I chopped up some lettuce.
Meanwhile Brady wanted to see what was going on and jumped up on his hind legs to get a peak at what I was chopping. On his way back down onto all fours he hit a pot off one of the shelves which promptly fell straight onto my foot.
And it hurt. A lot.
When I finally got done bouncing around the kitchen on one foot we sat down for a nice taco meal. And then I realized that in the process of making the world’s most amazing tacos I also fried my hair.
Yep, the tip of a small section of my hair was most definitely singed. It smelled burnt, it looked burnt. It was burnt.
No idea how my hair caught on fire without me knowing it, but I’d consider that quite a talent.
Maybe from now on I really should just stick to the cake pops.