Twosday Cooking? Me?
Today, tell us about two memorable times you've prepared food. Maybe they're memorable because you set the stove on fire.... or because of who your dinner guest was. Maybe they're memorable because of what was served. Either way... get cookin'!
Er. . .I don't usually do any of the cooking. Back in Burtonsville, we had a cook who made all the meals, and here the food I eat is generally cooked by either Doc or March.
I have made sandwiches, though. I remember the first time I made myself a chip butty, with a little help from the cook (he made the chips). I was surprised at how good it was -- Mother had always told me pub food was horrible and that only the lower class eats it. Of course, I've never had a chip butty in an actual pub, so maybe there's a difference between that and homemade. I still occasionally make one if I'm in the mood. (And, amusingly, Marty -- who Mother probably thinks is as low-class as one can get -- is absolutely baffled by them. Apparently Hill Valley doesn't have them.)
The only other thing that comes to mind is a time when I was nine when I tried to make a bowl of chicken soup on my own. I found some broth in the icebox and tried to heat it up on the stove. And, of course, I burned myself. Not badly, but it hurt terribly. The cook heard my cries and came to my rescue, holding my hand under cold water and then putting butter all over it. Said it would help. I let him finish making the soup.
Er. . .I don't usually do any of the cooking. Back in Burtonsville, we had a cook who made all the meals, and here the food I eat is generally cooked by either Doc or March.
I have made sandwiches, though. I remember the first time I made myself a chip butty, with a little help from the cook (he made the chips). I was surprised at how good it was -- Mother had always told me pub food was horrible and that only the lower class eats it. Of course, I've never had a chip butty in an actual pub, so maybe there's a difference between that and homemade. I still occasionally make one if I'm in the mood. (And, amusingly, Marty -- who Mother probably thinks is as low-class as one can get -- is absolutely baffled by them. Apparently Hill Valley doesn't have them.)
The only other thing that comes to mind is a time when I was nine when I tried to make a bowl of chicken soup on my own. I found some broth in the icebox and tried to heat it up on the stove. And, of course, I burned myself. Not badly, but it hurt terribly. The cook heard my cries and came to my rescue, holding my hand under cold water and then putting butter all over it. Said it would help. I let him finish making the soup.