I geared myself up. First, of course, was the protective lab coat, then the thick pants, then came the goggles and glasses. Taking a deep breath, I walked into the combat zone and gingerly picked up the first item.
I was just about to use it when my phone buzzed. I was pretty wound up--I yelped and jumped. The egg exploded all over the kitchen.
"Aww, come on!" I yelled in frustration. "I haven't even been in here five freaking seconds!"
I took off my now egg-stained glasses and chucked them into the sink, peeling off my gloves. Sure enough, it was Shorty, with her amazing sense of timing. I told her (not without a slight pang of regret) that no, I could not play Halo 4 right now because reasons (battling foodstuffs in the kitchen did not seem to be an adequate--or even sane--response, and I didn't feel like lying) and put my phone on silent. I snapped the stovetop on, turned to grab a pot out from under the counter, and caused a pot avalanche.
"I gotta stop playing Jenga with my cookware," I muttered, digging myself out from the pile and selecting a nice saucepan...and performing a few swordfighting moves with it while yelling, "I have GOT to get me one of these!!"
Editor's note: Radar will take any opportunity to quote any movie. Including, it would seem, Tangled.
I started hunting around for my gloves again. I couldn't find them anywhere. I was checking under the couch cushions in the living room (you know, in case I'd thrown them and they'd bounced off of two walls and ricocheted off the floor to bury themselves in the depths of my command chair) when my smoke alarm helpfully informed me that I'd left them on the stove, and they were rapidly being converted back into their separate component atoms.
After swapping out the saucepan for what was left of the gloves, I threw the butter on the stove, yanked the smoke alarm out of the roof, and retired to my bedroom for a change of undergarments, sprinting back out to the kitchen posthaste when I realized it would probably be better to put the butter in the pan.
Editor's note: In case it's not immediately obvious, he spent way too much time today in lab. His brain is obviously fried.
I turned back to the counter and had a small debate with the second egg about where, exactly, I wanted it to go; obviously, holding it DIRECTLY OVER THE BOWL wasn't quite enough direction, as it tried to hurl its contents after its fallen brother. I managed to catch the majority of it, though, and decided to unwrap the butter, figuring that paper in the pan would probably not sauté well. And might, y'know, set something on fire. Again.
Editor's note: We lied. It's Sunday and he's spent his day building random Lego machines and wearing a cape. It's entirely possible he just lost it.
I decided music might help me focus. I settled on "Highway to Hell" as being the most appropriate for the fiasco I was now embarking on and decided to move the racks around in the oven before I turned it on.
Apparently, the oven had already been on for a while. My retreat to the sink for first aid purposes was swift and dignified, and was certainly not littered with alternating cuss words and screaming.
Editor's note: It totally was. Sounded like a little girl sailor. It was hilarious. And how does one forget that he turned on the oven?
I pulled out the flour, carefully and precisely measuring out exactly one cup before accidentally inhaling some and sneezing violently, applying the cup of flour carefully and precisely to my entire apartment. I decided to roll with it. "THE ENEMY IS TRYING TO SMOKE US OUT! WE MUST HOLD OUR POSITION!!!" I yelled and belly-flopped to the ground, landing face-first on the pots I'd completely forgotten about.
The ensuing crash sounded like two knights in full armor crashing their horses together. (The snorting noises were supplied by me trying to get the flour out of my nose.) I picked myself up, kicked half of the pots across the kitchen, and held my breath while measuring out the next two cups of flour. I checked the recipe, discovered that I needed shortening, and tripped over the pots going to get it, managing a beautiful swan dive right into the trash can.
Editor's note: This guy works in a lab. How he's survived so far is anyone's guess.
I brushed off a stray banana peel and confiscated the shortening from the cupboard, reflecting on how my diving talents were wasted in the hostile and inhospitable combat zone I now found myself in. I put one of the bigger pots on my head, hoping it would protect me from any more blunt-force trauma; then I decided to test it with a spoon. My head was fine, but the ringing in my ears reminded me that there were worse things in life than concussions, so my enviably fashionable headgear was discarded.
I managed to finish the dough without any incidents worse than a water faucet sneezing (no idea how that happened, but I'm not ruling out poltergeists). I was rolling it out when I remembered that I'd forgot to add the butter, which had completed the solid-to-liquid conversion and was now partway through the liquid-to-gas conversion and spitting greasy death at all comers. I put my helmet back on, snatched up a pot lid shield, and grabbed my sword--which promptly drooped dejectedly, reminding me why no one used dough as an offensive weapon. I swapped it out for a spatula and charged.
Editor's note: The description of the following battle was deemed inappropriate for all audiences and was censored due to excessive violence and gore. Honestly, how Radar turns a simple recipe into an R-rated story is beyond me.
...so anyway, I got the butter wrangled into the dough and rolled it out again. It was time. I reached for my rolling pin, only to realize that it wasn't in the right drawer. After turning the kitchen rightside-up (it was already upside-down--pay attention), I remembered that I'd never, in fact, bought a rolling pin; I'd only considered buying one, which was not the same thing, unfortunately. Fortunately, I had a nice tin can that would work. Sort of.
I forced the dough to roll nicely into my pan, which took only about an hour and a half and didn't end up looking like the Mountains of Moria. Satisfied, I screamed, "FINE, DON'T LIE FLAT THEN!!" and hurled the can into the trash, where it ricocheted off of three walls, two chairs, a bow, my couch, my command chair, the counter edge and bonked me in the forehead. Fortunately, I was still wearing my enviably fashionable headgear.
I took a moment to remind myself that there were worse things than concussions (the ungodly ringing in my ears from that stupid pot being but one example) and discarded the metal hat. I sliced up the apples and threw them over the mountainous terrain before plopping the rest of the dough over the top and throwing it in the oven as anti-climatically as possible.
Editor's note: Anti-climatic??? The pan ricocheted off two walls, the ceiling, the bookshelf, a ceiling fan, a stray cat (where did THAT come from??), the kitchen table, a closet, a bicycle, two elves (we're not even surprised anymore), and Radar's forehead before making it into the oven. Oh, yeah, and he burned himself again.
Cleanup didn't take too long--
Editor's note: The government stepped in and declared the site hazardous on a Chernobyl scale. They're sending helicoptors in to seal everything in concrete as we speak.
--and fortunately, I'd remembered to set a timer for the apple slices.
Editor's note: NO HE DIDN'T.
Success was achieved! Despite all odds, I'd won the battle to cook apple slices!! Don't ask me how...I don't actually know.
Editor's note: HOW...WHAT....that's NOT possible!!!! *makes vow to never audit Radar's posts again*
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