WHY I SHOULD NEVER BE LEFT ALONE IN THE KITCHEN

I’ve always believed that cooking is an art. Unfortunately, I’m the kind of artist whose paintings get accidentally sold as “modern abstract fire hazards.”

It all started one lazy Sunday morning when I was home alone and hungry. Not just any kind of hungry—this was "I-will-eat-my-pillow-if-I-don’t-find-real-food" kind of hungry. That’s when the brilliant idea struck: Why not cook something?

Now, mind you, my cooking experience is best described as “emotional support microwave” and “burnt toast specialist.” But that day, I felt confident. Inspired. Channeling my inner Gordon Ramsay (minus the skills and the vocabulary).

I strutted into the kitchen like a celebrity chef entering a five-star studio. I grabbed a pan with enthusiasm and absolutely no idea what I was doing. I decided on eggs—safe, easy, classic. But here's where things went wrong. I boiled oil. That’s right, I let oil boil as if I were preparing a potion in a wizard movie. It started bubbling like it was planning world domination.

Somehow, while cracking eggs, I managed to get shells in the pan and the yolks on the counter. It was like the eggs saw me coming and decided to end it all on their own terms.

Then came the onions. I heard somewhere that onions make food fancy. So I chopped one. Have you ever chopped an onion with such emotion that your neighbors ask if you’re okay? Because I did. I cried like I’d just watched the ending of Titanic—twice. I’m not sure if it was the onion or the realization that I had no idea what I was doing, but tears were flowing.

At this point, the smoke alarm went off. I didn’t even know we had a smoke alarm until it started screaming like it had just witnessed a crime. I panicked and started fanning it with a plate while still holding a spatula in the other hand. I must’ve looked like a confused flamenco dancer.

Eventually, I got the alarm to stop (after apologizing to it and promising to order takeout next time). I returned to the stove. The eggs were... not eggs anymore. They were a crunchy, abstract mess stuck to the pan like ancient fossils. I tried to flip them, but they laughed in my face and disintegrated.

In the end, I did what any responsible adult would do: I made cereal. No fire. No tears. Just simple, soggy victory.

I learned a lot from that experience. For instance, did you know you're not supposed to cook onions on high heat with maple syrup “to add sweetness”? Yeah. Me neither. Apparently, that’s how you summon caramelized sadness.

Also, fun fact: kitchen smoke smells linger for three days and can turn your home into what I now call “Eau de Disaster.”

My cat, who witnessed the whole event from a safe distance, still gives me judgmental looks every time I go near the stove. It’s as if he’s thinking, “She’s doing it again. Get the fire extinguisher.”

But I like to look at the bright side. Sure, I failed at cooking, nearly set off the fire sprinklers, and emotionally bonded with an onion—but I lived. And I now know my limits.

So here’s my advice to fellow brave, hungry souls: if you're not sure how to cook something, maybe just Google it first. Or better yet—find someone who loves you enough to cook for you while you handle the important tasks, like setting the table or choosing background music.

As for me, the kitchen and I are currently on a break. We're seeing other people. Mainly, the delivery guy.

Pan burned, tears fell, cereal won — kitchen dreams undone, fun.