I have a confession to make:
I, Ghost Chance, have committed yet another crime against cooking, and I have once again faced no punishment for it. Allow me to dump my guilty taIe upon you like a murderous and possibly cannibalistic ancient mariner.
Last week, Cold and I made tacos for dinner. Nothing fancy, just seasoned ground beef, cheese, and lettuce in crunchy shells and tortillas - surely simple enough even I couldn't destroy it. Being the eternal airhead that I am, I got distracted by something shiny when cleaning up and packing away leftovers. I left the cooled and wrapped tortillas on their plate and Cold, wanting to be helpful, put the plate in the fridge as-is. The leftovers had to wait a while, because I caught the local bug the next day.
Tonight, my throat was finally healed enough for leftovers. I went about warming the meat and asked Cold to retrieve the shells, tortillas, and toppings. He brought me the plate of tortillas with a cringe. "Honey?" he said, "wanna explain this?"
The next few moments were a textbook example of 'laugh because getting pissy solves nothing.' Horrified, I picked up the topmost tortilla. It was stiff as a corn chip, round, and perfectly petrified. I suppressed my impulse to launch it across the kitchen like a frisbee. I am, after all, an adult. (...right? Right.) "Um..." I faltered, gently flexing the edge of the disc. "Maybe it's not too - " The piece in my right hand snapped clean off with the kind of crunch pickle companies advertise and hair stylists dread. I stared at the tortilla and fragment in my hands, wide-eyed, stunned, and silent. "...iyeh?"
"Okay, it's toast," I admitted, "but maybe I can fix it!" I sprayed the tortilla with water, put it on a plate, and microwaved it for a short time. Steam belched from the open door when I retrieved the plate, and I held up the tortilla with triumphant hands. "See?" I grinned to Cold, "FIXED!"
CRACK. That sonuvabitch split right down the middle with an even more pronounced crunch. Cold laughed so hard he stopped breathing. (This is, unfortunately, a common occurrence with him when my "blonde" is showing.) I uttered another small, strangled noise I do not care to spell out, never looking away from my latest cooking crime. The gist of that noise, however, was "well, FUCK."
Friends, strangers, do you know what I did with that pitifully abused flour disc? I piled shredded cheese on the two halves, nuked them, buried them in even more shredded cheese, and nuked them again. Cold and I dared each other to try it and we both ate a piece. Was it good? Meh. Did it kill us? Not sure yet, ask tomorrow.
This is only my latest crime in the kitchen. "Tofu-jerky." "Cheezit-Pizza." "Gastritis-Gravy," "Pesto-Flambe," and even "Jellied Ramen Noodles." (Don't ask. Please don't ask.) I...yeah, if it requires much concentration I can't cook it. 😑 I have never been punished or penalized for any of these culinary crimes, and time and time again, I fall back on my evil ways. My recidivism rate would make any judge sigh and deny parole; instead, I will surely find a way to poison us someday. At least it will be amusing.