Spaghetti Spartan9:30 AM
In some ways it was providential. I am referring, of course, to the incident that occurred at 21:32 on 12 June 2010 while I was making baked spaghetti for the church potluck. Our church has a reputation for good potlucks. Ask our Northland students. If our church is known for anything, it's good food and good cooks.
Naturally, me being the Hapless Homemaker, such prowess intimidates me. But I'm becoming well-known myself for bravery in such impregnable feats. There's nothing lost in trying. I'm sure no one would mind ignoring the little mess up with my last potluck fare, especially since I warned everyone that it was ruined. And honestly, what world-famous cook hasn't drained the meat mixture after he added the tomato sauce?
Baked spaghetti, to add to my confidence, is simple. I mastered spaghetti long ago, after setting the stove on fire because my spaghetti sauce dripped. Vigorous stirring, you know.
So I was disappointed at not being able to mess up and chronicle the hilarity on this blog. Sure, not being able to use my favorite noodle pot with the lid perfect for draining made me worried a bit; but in no time I was chopping, stirring and running back and forth between noodles and beef.
The meat mixture done, I turned to my noodles and prepared to drain them. Just yesterday I'd cooked noodles in the same, non-special pot and it went beautifully. Sorry, y'all - I just wasn't in a Hapless Homemaker mood. With confidence and a June Cleaver smile I cracked the lid a little and drained the spaghetti.
Here I must make a confession. I almost had an incident to chronicle. A few strands of steaming spaghetti plopped in the sink, with several more about to commit like suicide. The rescue, though stressful and traumatic, went smoothly - aided by the beloved oven mitts I should have worn the day I burnt my thumb. A little water yet remained, but by now the Professional Spaghetti Matron had it down. A little tilting - a little more tilting.
I have a confession to make. I spilled the spaghetti. Badly. Like, all down the drain badly.
Immediately I yelled for reinforcements. The accomplished Flop, of course, offered no sympathy, but my MOM howl met with some success - and hugs.
It's just fate, I tell you. Fate. And I hope you're satisfied with my tale, for it took much trouble to fix. My reputation, I mean.