Not-so-Iron Chef

I don't cook.

Whenever I say that someone inevitably pipes up, "Aww, poor Scott. What does he do?" That's when I just smile and say, "He starves! Bwahahaha!" and stroke my evil minion cat, spinning around in my evil-ruler chair of evil.

No, that's not right. He gets a crust of bread and glass of water.

The truth is, he cooks — and very well, I might add. Some men don't even know their way around the kitchen or the ingredients that go into a grilled cheese ("Does it include heating up the grill?"), but my spectacular husband can whip up some pretty stellar dishes. See proof below.

Rice and asparagus frittata with biscuits

I know you've seen this before, but it was so good I had to show it again.

Try not to drool on the keyboard, OK?

Cooking stresses me out. There's a lot going on when it comes to pulling together a meal. Lots of directions, timing, keeping cool under pressure — all of which I'm terrible at. My mom always told me that she hoped that I would marry someone who could cook, otherwise I'd be stuck eating cereal and Lean Cuisines for the rest of my life. (Which is fine with me because I love pasta and can eat a spaghetti Lean Cuisine for 290 calories! Carbs and calorie-conscious? Sign me up!)

I'm the girl who thought that the water I'd just boiled was super-heated and deadly after watching a special on 20/20. While living in the dorm, I set an entire pan of brownies ablaze when the marshmallows I'd placed on top got too close to the broiler (as in touching the broiler). I've also burned scrambled eggs, Pop Tarts, toast, various bodily appendages, butter, and cheese. Me + kitchen - common cooking skills = fire.

I remember talking with my great-grandmother last year while she was still in the nursing home and listening to her tell me about how she would cook dinner every night for my great-grandfather from scratch.

There were no microwave dinners or "oh, we'll just order pizza" nights. And these weren't small dinners, either. There was a meat, veggies, bread of some form, and probably a dessert. She told me how, for her, the easiest bread option was biscuits. "Most people," she said, "would think that cornbread would be easier, but it was too much for me. I would just make biscuits every night. And your Daddy Bob liked biscuits better anyway. Can you make biscuits for Scott?"

Well, in her definition of the word "make," no. I can pop open a Pillsbury can, which is always momentarily heart stopping, and set out the preformed biscuit rounds on a cookie sheet and set the oven timer to 20 minutes. That's how I "make" them. But it's a secret recipe, so don't tell anyone.

I'm beyond thankful that I have a husband who is willing to cook dinner every night (even if it's just sandwiches — which are really his all-time favorite anyway) and who enjoys it.

And just so you don't think I sit around the house in my mu-mu, eating bon-bons while watching television (What am I? 80?), I do wash the dishes post-dinner and give Scott a "thank you" hug and kiss — and he thanks me for not setting the house on fire.