What happens when I try to cook.

I've been trying so hard the past week to cook, because we can no longer afford to get takeout every night and because I'd really like to hone some sort of skill before we're an actual family, therefore taking some of the burden off of Jason and his sole cooking abilities. I cannot cook. I just can't. I lack that innate sensibility. I'm terrified of ovens. I'm even more terrified of crackling olive oil. I can never cook chicken all the way through without completely over-drying it, and I always end up letting Jason finish the job when I try to start something even remotely complicated.

Jason has that innate sensibility. He knows how long to cook chicken, or what spices to put on steak, or what might taste good on top of that pasta.

But I do have one thing going for me in the kitchen. I have always wanted, badly, to be a good cook. Maybe it comes from more than a decade of obsessing about my digestive health, but I am equally obsessed with food. I love it. I can't eat the same thing every night. I want to be creative, to try new things, to eat and eat and eat (can you tell I'm hungry right now?).

So the past week, on the days I've been off work, anyway, I've been making Jason dinner for once. I've made hot and spicy pork chops (cough, shake and bake, cough) with prosciutto-wrapped asparagus. I've made tacos (good ones, I might add). I've made ravioli with artichoke and tomato sauce and sauteed spinach with homemade (yes, as in not shake and bake) bruschetta. And, last night, I actually felt downright proud of myself: Spanish rice with huevos and cheesy tortillas, thanks to a recipe from my ever-more-so culinarily skilled friend Morgan. She's probably laughing if she's reading this, because the recipe is probably among the simplest things in her repertoire, but my making it successfully had Jason looking at me like "who are you and what have you done with my fiance who can't cook plain chicken?"

I almost--almost--broke down and called Morgan to walk me through how to make an over-easy egg, but I restrained and winged it. And I succeeded. And I'm proud.

Tonight, I'm craving this chicken my parents used to make. Suddenly it hit me that Campbell's cream of mushroom soup was probably involved. So I google recipes with cream of mushroom soup and I swear to god find the exact one my parents made 15 years ago. Martha Stewart could probably make it while blindfolded and getting insider trading tips over the phone and hand-dying an Easter egg in all sorts of crazy designs at once. And if I actually told Morgan what this recipe entailed, she would, I'm sure, laugh again. It is probably THE SIMPLEST THING YOU COULD EVER COOK.

And yet, in the past ten minutes, I've had to google the following, just to make sure I don't screw it up (yes, this is verbatim what I had to google):

Do you add water to cream of mushroom soup for casserole?
Can you use minute rice in cream of mushroom soup casserole?
Does the size of the pan really matter when making a casserole?
(And, then, after BettyCrocker.com told me that, no, I couldn't use minute rice in a casserole and ohmygod HOW COULD I HAVE NOT KNOWN THAT????):
Can you cook cream of mushroom chicken casserole without rice?

Now, with all my questions answered, I'm off to cook the world's simplest recipe (the minute rice will be made on the side).

See why I need some serious practice before baby comes? Otherwise it will have to endure a mother who serves raw chicken and burnt rice mushroom casserole.