A couple of months ago, after a long day of work, Will said he'd take care of dinner. It was a Tuesday, and if you've been married to Will as long as I have (and if you have, that sounds like something I should know, so speak up) that means it's Best Show with Tom Scharpling on WFMU night.
Will put a frozen pizza in the oven and pointed his browser to WFMU.org. I sat down next to him on the couch with Daisy in my lap. After a few minutes I asked if I should check on the pizza.
I set the timer, he promised me.
I went back to petting the dog and reading a book, not minding the time. Until something started to burn about twenty minutes later. Will jumped up and ran to the kitchen.
I guess I forgot to set the timer, he said as the smell of burnt pizza filled the apartment.
Last night, we replayed the same scenario, except that while the opening notes of The Best Show theme song streamed through the Mac's speakers, I was busy making dinner. I chopped zucchini, sliced onion, crushed garlic and tossed it with some olive oil and chicken pesto sausage and dumped it in a pyrex baking dish to roast in the oven for an hour.
After thirty minutes I got up to check on dinner, taking the pyrex out of the oven and giving it a good stir. I opened the oven, retriever my mitts, and grabbed the dish to stick it back in the oven for another thirty minutes.
Except that in-between grabbing the dish and placing it in the oven, my brain decided to concentrate on the voice coming out speakers instead of the 375-degree firestorm in front of me.
I placed the dish halfway on the oven rack, where it slipped and dumped half of its contents on the oven door.
I salvaged a third of our dinner and made the rest up with wine.
And decided that cooking and the Best Show don't mix.