America's Not Quite Top Chef

Last night, Olaf made me dinner to be nice. I'm sick. Tonight, I want to make him dinner.

Without exxageration, this is how it goes:

I find a can of spicy Vindaloo sauce, with directions — in English. I don't eat spicy food. This is what we will have anyway.

I buy the chicken, onions and a can of cut tomatoes as it directs me.

I sautee the cut onion, the chicken. I have to open the can of tomatoes and vindaloo.

Olaf has tons of gadgets in here, including the fork thingie to not even eat or scoop spaghetti but test it for doneness ... but I wish he had a can opener for people who can't figure out how to use the can opener.

20 minutes.
20 minutes.

I poke the wheel in. I move the handle. I try stabbing it. I look at the bottle opener, and try to dent and poke and work my way around.

I finally find the picture of what to do on the opener. It does not work.

I go around and around the can. I have to do this.
I pretend I'm in the military. You have to do it.

I look again. Directions, on the flip side, in English. Hold the thing: rotate clockwise. Wrong way. OK.

Nothing happens. I squeeze the can and POP! The can lid goes flying and the tomato sauce all over my nice black skull shirt. Oh. It's off.

It's off!

I wipe myself off, and do the vindaloo before I forget.

I dump the vindaloo in but it splashes on the back wall.

We. WILL. eat. tonight.

My mom will at least be proud I'm trying. That's more than usual!