In which I reveal my mistress

First, a brief history of the early years of my domestic journey into the kitchen parts of my home:

I have been known to catch spaghetti noodles on fire.  Honest.  Somehow, I once managed to ignite a pot of water.

Long ago, my jell-o didn't jiggle, my oatmeal was always lumpy, and my hamburgers were hockey pucks.

The first time I made sloppy joes, the slop wasn't fit for dogs. Truly. I couldn't get the humans around me to eat it so I gave it to my aunt's dog and the bitch wouldn't touch it.

Come to think of it, the parasites that Hubs brought home from his time in South America before I subjected him to my cooking are most likely the very things that kept him alive through (what we will politely call) the learning phase of my relationship with the stove.

We stuck it out, though.  The stove and I.  Through good times and bad, through bland brownies and salty soup and rock hard dinner rolls we learned which of each other's buttons to push (I discovered the medium setting on the stovetop) and when to back off . . .  and now? Aahhh . . . now, my stove and I carry on a passionate love affair.  I have found a rhythm in the kitchen that puts a bounce in my step.  Sometimes we don't have as much time for each other as we would like and I cheat on her with the crockpot and I admit to actually having paid for it at (gasp!) McDonald's but for the most part, we really heat things up together, me and my stove.  

Who knows, maybe I'm even confident enough in my relationship to share a little.  Maybe, just maybe, I'll tell you how I make homemade chicken stock.  Then, maybe I'll tell you what kinds of things you can do with your homemade chicken stock.  Or how about marinara sauce and meatballs?  Pork and ginger soup over rice.  Pancit, chicken adobo, and lumpias could be in your future.  I can't really say.  Because, after all, what's a love affair without a couple of empty promises?  But you never know . . .