Cooking isn’t quite my…strength.

Despite this, I was determined to host a dinner party. An ADULT dinner party.

THEN I found out one of the guests was vegan for lent. Nevertheemind. Minor challenge. ADULT dinner party.

I carefully curated the menu, based on a recipe list I found on vegan Superbowl appetizers {let’s eat Superbowl food year-round, I say!} and an offhand suggestion from a friend that a taco bar is an easy fix for a mixed vegan/omnivore dinner.

9:00am

I wake up with my to do list already in mind: shop for food, shop for booze, shop for adult-looking dinnerware, clean apartment, set up adult-looking dinner, and…um…cook.

Luckily I had tackled vegan brownies the night before.

10:00am

Run out of apartment, unsure where time went. Disadvantage of not having a car: needing to visit three stores for three big loads frequently means three separate trips.

Curses lack of car.

12:00pm

Frantic cleaning and grocery-putting-away-ing. Results in this face:

2:00pm

O is going to arrive soon. Realization: O can cook.

O will be doing the cooking.

2:30pm

O arrives but is tired from his drive. Needs nap. Can’t have a cranky O.

I decide to get started on cooking while O naps. Before going down, O hesitates and looks at me, Are you sure you’ll be ok without me?

Silly boy.

2:35pm

Recipe calls for a cooked potato. How does one cook a potato exactly?

Googling.

3:00pm

O wakes up from nap to find me cutting open jalapenos and digging out their insides with my fingers like a pro. I’m a friggin stuffed-jalapeno-making machine. O looks horrified.

What?

That can really burn your fingers.

Silly boy.

O looks at the rest of the that jalapenos still needing cleaning like they’re a rabid, unwashed stray cat. Scaredy cat indeed.

Being the tough, considerate chick that I am, I finish off the jalapenos and leave the rest of the entire meal to O.

4:30pm

Guests start arriving {I know, we eat like old folks}.

I greet them, start putting out food, and try to ignore the sudden tingling sensation that’s popped up under my nails.

5:00pm

Pain. Massive amounts of finger-burning pain.

Frantic googling for cure. One website suggest rubbing your fingers down with butter, but my wimpy, girly light butter is no match for my jalapeno-induced hell.

O ends up taping alcohol wipes around my fingertips as I’m out of band aids.

Not the best look for an adult dinner party.

10:00pm

Adult dinner party finishes on a fun note. My friends are the best. Am ready to chop fingers off.

The Next Morning

O and I treat ourselves to a fancy brunch after our massive success at adult dinner-party hosting. My fingers still hurt, but I’m a trooper. I only let out high-pitched wines every two minutes or so.

At some point during brunch O sticks his knife into the fresh butter at our table and plops a glop of it onto my plate. Rub it on your fingers. Pretend it’s moisturizer.

Looking around like a kid risking detention, I go ahead and rub this fancy restaurant’s butter all over my jalapeno-burned fingers. Sweet. SWEET relief.

There’s no doubt I learned my lesson. O will be doing 100% of the cooking from now on.