Chef

We're eating out less and less. It's partly due to the hassle of hauling a carseat into a restaurant, hoping then that Lyla will nap through the meal. And partly it's due to our one-paycheck existence now that Julie is well-immersed in the unpaid part of her leave.

If we spent the better part of our 20s eating out, then will our 30s be the decade we learn to cook?

For my part, I'm learning how to make pizza. I got a dough recipe from a friend of mine, and as I type this I'm waiting another 20 minutes or so for the 500-degree oven to heat the pizza stone. I'm worried about transferring the pizza from the peel (wooden pizza spatula thing) to the stone. I guess it takes a perfect flick of the wrist, but it occurs to me that if my wrist fails, then my oven will eat pizza and we'll be left to...well, order pizza I guess.

Twelve minutes until the oven is ready. I hope I didn't spread out the dough too early. It's sitting on the peel now, probably sticking to it. God. I should've just preheated the oven and then afterward prepared the pizza. But I was too eager to use my new rolling pin, you see. Too eager to chop the mushrooms. Man, it'd be great to not screw this up utterly on my first attempt. The Super Bowl is tonight; if we have to order delivery, it could be hours.

Cooking is hard. I just left the computer to sprinkle on the cheese. Six minutes until launch. When Lyla's older and I make gourmet pizzas at her slumber parties, she'll never know the anguish I experienced with the first one. On second thought, she will because I'll tell her all about it, bore her to oblivion.

*Update*

My my. This is going to be tasty. We may never eat out again.