I'm proud to say that I'm a pretty good cook.

My momma taught me well!

She did. My stepmom raised us in a home where we always had a wonderful dinner every night, usually around the same time every day.

Not that she ever really sat me down to say "this is how you cook" but, watching someone come up with different recipes (that she always called concoctions) and eating the yummy food every night really helped me to learn peripherally.

Even the nights that she really took the night off from cooking were fun. When my dad worked shift work, Mom would treat my brother and me with "Little Pizzas". Biscuits flattened out with pizza or spaghetti sauce spread on top, topped with cheese and then baked. My brother and I loved "Little Pizza Night".

Like Mom, I often use recipes and change them up or just make things up as I go along.

I really love to cook.

But

I am NOT a baker.

And, I really don't understand why I can cook a scrumptious meal but, burn muffins.

I don't even have fun when I bake. The whole time, I'm just thinking about how badly I will mess it up.

Not that I don't attempt at times. And sure, there are a few things in my dessert repertoire that are yummy and come out decent tasting. Things that don't require cooking (like my Lemon Pie) and things I've been making for many years (like my Neiman Marcus Cake) generally end up being edible.

Four years ago I decided that I wanted to try a "real" dessert to take to hubby's family's Christmas party.

I was ready.

I found the perfect recipe for a Chocolate Cheesecake.

I was prepared to make the whole thing from scratch. Even went out and bought a springform pan.

I followed the recipe precisely. Checked and rechecked during baking. Did everything perfectly.

It was gorgeous.

A masterpiece.

Decorated for the holiday and looked unbelievably yummy.

I was so proud of myself.

Too proud?

Because Karma....she doesn't like pride.

I made my finishing touches on my beautiful cake in my tiny little kitchen. The kitchen in that apartment had about three inches of counterspace. I had the cake sitting beside the sink and was just about to cover it and be done.

And I got distracted.

As I tend to do.

And started cleaning up.

And hit the garbage disposal switch.

And it was then, my friends, that Karma decided to spit in my face. Via the disposal.

Nasty disposal water went everywhere.

All over my beautiful cake.

Oh, the cuss words that came out of my mouth that day would make a construction worker blush. And, of course it would happen to the dessert I was taking to Hubby's family get together!

I threw the cake away and have rarely attempted baking since that day.

I also never set anything anywhere close to the sink anymore.

What about you? Are you a baker? Do you have a cooking horror story? Share! Let's commiserate!