I burned the shit out of my hand this weekend. We were cooking for Nancy and Craig, a lovely idea that Kevin and I decided was too fucking complicated and we'll never do it again. Not that we'll never cook for our parents.....they are such gracious guests and tell us how perfectly brilliantly we do everything in the kitchen...but it will just be for fun, not a gift.

It started with some surprise bills towards the holidays. I don't even remember, probably a mix of car repairs, too many dinners out, and "oh yeah that student loan AND our utility bill is due this month." So we decided to gift services to some familiy members instead of the traditional gift. Part of that was cooking big, fancy dinners for our respective parents.

Not too hard, to get four adults together at the same time, right?

Well, we treated Kevin's folks in June and my folks this weekend. Like an act of God, or worse, an act of Congress to get this accomplished.

So we're cooking roast chicken, potatoes, baby zucchini. Simple fare but great ingredients. I have the chicken on the stove. I'm ready to make a simple sauce for the chicken. I grab the handle of the saute pan.

This pan was just removed from a 450 degree oven.

After five hours of icing my burnt fingers, I could still feel the hot metal against my skin within 10 seconds of removing the ice. My mom had to cut my chicken for me. I slept with my hand on an ice pack. Kevin won Husband of the Day when he washed the multitude of dishes the following morning. Mom was pretty upset about it. "I just hate watching you in pain." I told her she'd better get it together by the time I had a baby, because I'd heard that was a little uncomfortable.

Hopefully that will happen sooner rather than later! I've got a good feeling about this month....but I also had a good feeling about Adam Brown my junior year of college and he took another girl to the winter dance. I hope my instincts have improved with age.