I sure hope it’s the thought that counts, because things didn’t go too smoothly yesterday. I was shanghaied into cooking dinner, and the only problem was: I don’t cook. Maybe I should take that back, I’m alright with Top Ramen, Hot Pockets, and frozen pizza. Alas, the menu also wasn’t up to me, so I got to try and make a pot roast for the first time on Father’s Day.
I spent four hours in a crowded sweltering kitchen trying to approximate measurements and not burn the house down. Thankfully my sister and her friend showed up and helped cook. And by help, I mean they did most of it since I was busy making a mess of everything. While cooking after a glass or two of wine, her friend Janal kept waving the knife around and nearly took my eye out. Eventually, dinner was ready and as the assistant chef I can say that it wasn’t the succulent roast some people foolishly assumed it would be.
A few bottles of wine, some hot wings, and a creme pie later, no one really cared that dinner was an hour and a half late. There was uproarious laughter as we told stories of our various injuries, travels, and experiences. I admitted to being somewhat responsible for sending my little sister to the ER a couple times. She admitted to stealing everything I hadn’t bolted down over the years.
I suppose it was a good father’s day. I don’t know how to judge these things. Is it by amount of blood spilled? number of dishes prepared? cost of gifts given? or just whether or not anyone stormed out of the room screaming obscenities?