Real men must not fear the kitchen

I'm a hot piece of man, but I must admit that with all my perfections I still need to work out some kinks.

Today I’m trying my hand at cooking dinner—and I mean not just making me some eggs, but real “honey, I’m home cooking.”

I got the Foreman grill out, cut the meat into pieces, per internet advice, marinated the meat as best I could using—vinegar, lemon, oranges, and some foreign kitchen spice substance. I then put the marinated slices on the grill and waited. It smelled good, but it tasted horrendous. Actually, the texture was doable, but it was too dry. There goes sixth dollars worth of meat.

The rice—I am still waiting to see, but if my previous venture is any indicator—I’m dead meat!

I’ve always feared the kitchen, not because of the cultural machismo that plague many men, but because I grew with a family of sixth.

This meant that if I screwed up six dollars worth of meat, I would be exiled and excommunicated from my family—and that’s assuming I got off lightly. My point is if six people don’t eat on account of someone’s Rachel Ray venture, there would be blood in the house and I don’t mean the movie.

Father screaming: “There goes $7.50 cents of meat, 2 percent of the electric bill, and one-tenth of the gas bill.”

Mother screams: “You’ve burned my spatula and darken my fork,”

Sister: “What were you thinking?”

Brothers: “Thanks a lot ass.”

But my hope and call to action is simply—Men do not fear the kitchen.

In my case, it is the only thing keeping me from being a Sexy Deity. I've met my match, my worthy adversary, but assuming I don't go broke, I intend on overcoming it.