It’s no secret that I’m not exactly Betty Crocker. My husband is the chef in our house and my daughter will be the first to tell you that Daddy is good at making “food food” and Mommy is good at making sweets (ie throwing together a box of ol’ Betty Crocker’s brownies and adding in some chocolate chips for good measure).
My husband keeps telling me how easy all of his delectable concoctions are. I think he’s trying to hint that maybe I could get my ass in the kitchen once or twice a month if I follow a couple of his simple recipes.
Normally, cooking together would go under my list of the worst cheap date ideas ever. Mostly because (like my six-year old), I don’t really enjoy doing things that I’m terrible at (I’m talking to you, bowling). And let me tell you. If Bobby Flay saw my chopping skills, he’d be horrified. I also don’t enjoy my husband telling me that I’m doing something wrong. At all.
Still, I put on my big girl panties, braved it and actually learned how to make some insanely delicious homemade tortillas.
