The anxious staring at those evil little blinking numbers of the timer (or even worse, one of those clockwork egg timers crawling along their little circle with no concern for your sanity), and pacing back and forth in front of the stove. Then comes the wonderful satisfaction of pulling off a perfect recipe and slowly, very slowly, eating your edible masterpiece, and the sighs of relief from everyone else in the household. I know it happens to me, and thus begins what is essentially a written record of what happens when you let a crazy teenage girl loose in a kitchen. I don't have a fancy culinary degree, there are no articles under my name, and I have never set foot in a restaurant kitchen. But I love food, and in my opinion, that's good enough. And let's face it: Is there anything better than making something really great and being able to answer those burning questions of "This is delicious- who made it?" with "I did. How is it?"
Hello, ego boost. :]
(Yes, I use smiley faces. What's wrong with that?)