Marth Stewart would not be proud.

Since starting college, I have looked at myself as being very independent in the kitchen. I was the go-to girl for domestic things. I guided my BFF neighbors on nutrition and calorie counting, made Rachel Rays 30 minute meals look inconvenient with my 20 minute masterpieces made for one, and even taught a dear sweet roomate how to boil water (love ya Katie). I have not lost my touch since being married, I am more domestic than ever before. The meals I have created have quite suprised myself even. There are still no excuses for last week. My kitchen was a war zone for me. The first disaster was over a dish full of MINT BROWNIES. For any one who has made these delectable delights you will know the time it takes to make them. First you bake the brownies, then cool in the fridge. Then you make the icing, then cool in the fridge again. Then you make the chocolate icing, then cool AGAIN in the fridge. It is quite the process, and I was on the second again in the fridge when I opened the door to this:

Yes, brownies on my floor, brow brownies on the floor.
I was devastated, Dylan was devastated. We were going to dinner at a friends house, and all we had left to take was chips and dip, pathetic.

My next mishap was only a few days later. It was Wednesday, my early day from work, my happy day. I was opening a harmless can of chicken, a food most "fake vegetarians I don't eat red meat" will even eat, when I saw red blood which I knew was not from the can o' bird. I sliced my knuckle on a can of chicken, and had to return back to work to get stitches.




My life is falling apart, well atleast my casserole dishes and flesh are.