Although my heart is in the right place, some of my kitchen creations are total bombs. Sadly, my annual birthday creations for Hubs' (whose birthday is tomorrow!) bear the brunt of my bombery.
Take, for instance, the panna cotta I made Hubs for his birthday in 2006. It was flavorless and thick and slimy. (Lesson: Don't trust Rachel Ray.)
In 2007, I tried tiramisu. The little cakey ladyfingers (store-bought because this was before my "everything from scratch" epiphany) were so soaked in liquor that we couldn't even eat them. They basically evaporated.
I took 2008 and 2009 off to lick my wounds and recover my dignity.
By 2010, I was a totally rad homeowner, free from the clutches of a puny apartment kitchen and newly granted ownership of a 40 year old KitchenAid. I had recently discovered the joys of Pioneer Woman and went hole hog, making enough cinnamon rolls to last us for months.
Tomorrow, I will continue my streak (of one...) with eggs florentine. It seems pretty easy, but I've never poached an egg. Or eaten a stick of butter in one meal. Or been fully mentally functioning before 6:30 a.m. in January.
Onward and upward!