Just call me Chef Christy

Or maybe not...You know, other people in my family can cook. My dad probably could have been a chef in another life. Scott can create just about anything from nothing and have it taste like something. And my mother has some recipes that I love (creamed eggs, taco soup just to name a few...we all forgive her for the chicken a la king disaster--She will never live that one down.) But me? I can't cook for sh@#!!! I tried to make rice crispy treats yesterday. Simple, right? Rice crispies? Check. Marshmallows? Check. Butter? Check. Throw it all in a pot and you've got yummy goodies that my two year old could make blindfolded. For real. Yet somehow I ended up with a big crusty pile of mess that even the dogs refused to eat. And they eat everything lately including broken glass (in their defense, it had once housed brownies before they knocked the container off the kitchen counter) and (don't read if you have a weak tummy) Cali actually ate the poop out of one of Alex's diapers last week. So she will literally eat POOP, but not my cooking. That's how much I suck. Sigh. ***Oh, and don't let Cali lick you. Yick!