I stand at the stove,
nostrils tingling as sweet scents intrude.
My fingers dance over the food;
Spices, wines, delectable brews
Splash in the pan
With a satisfying hiss.
A smile dances across my lips;
I never thought that cooking
Could be such fun.
The best part of all
Is when it is done;
When I sit at the plate,
Mouth watering and agape.
I finally taste the fruit of my labor;
Oh Lord, have I died?!
‘Tis better than all the treasures of Erebor!

So I learned how to cook…:D

I had always been afraid of cooking. Positively petrified. The popping grease, the cold gleam of the sharp knives. I simply couldn’t do it. Sure, I’d help my mom out with a meal or two, but the accident swore me off of serious cooking forever.

But you ask, “Kristin, what accident?? You must tell!”

Dear readers, I don’t think you understand; this is an incident that scarred me emotionally and physically for many, many years!

“Please dear, dear Kristin! Tell us the story!”

*Sigh* Fine. If you insist. But you must not laugh!

It was several years ago, back when I was just a freshman in high school. I was 15. One of my dear friends at the time, Lisa, had called me up to make breakfast crepes with her one sweltering day in the summer.

You may ask what breakfast crepes are. Essentially, they are crepes with an assortment of breakfast-type foods concealed within its precious little pancake-thin folds. Some might have bacon, others might have strawberries, rasberries, and other fruits. They are DELICIOUS.

Anyways, I went to her house to make these delectable little darlings. Being the breakfast whiz that I was at the time, Lisa set me to work making the bacon while she cooked the fruit crepes. All around us, the air was filled with our hums, happy chatter, and the satisfying sizzle of bacon grease.

It was all smooth sailing until one fatal moment.

Having cooked the bacon to the desired crispness, I had removed the bacon from the pan and, carrying the wrought-iron skillet filled with grease, stepped carefully over to the sink to pour the popping grease into a waiting jar.

That was when disaster struck.

My hand, trembling from the weight of the skillet, could no longer support it, and down the skillet came, spilling bacon grease all over my arm.

I screamed like nothing you’ve ever heard before.

I could feel it boiling in my skin. I felt like I was being cooked alive (or, at least my arm did). For a moment I just wailed, staring at my arm. Finally, I came to my senses and ran to the bathroom and stuck my arm under a cool stream of water.

All I could think was that I had to get the grease off. It had to come off. This mantra pounded in my head as I snatched a towel from the rack and scrubbed at the already-raw skin of my arm.

When I could stand the pain, I straightened up and called my mom, who promptly took me to the urgent care, where they bound my arm and told me to stay out of sunlight and water.

My summer was ruined.

Do you understand now? It was traumatizing!

But after 5 long years of battling this phobia, I finally overcame it and am now capable of cooking wonderful culinary masterpieces! It’s quite fantastic!

Just a word to the wise: wait until the grease has cooled to move it to another container. The consequences simply are not worth it.

Stay safe and keep cookin’! ❤

PS – For those of you who understood my reference to a certain fantastic trilogy, you’re extra awesome.