When I married my husband, I couldn’t cook a lick. I received a barrage of kitchen gadgets as wedding gifts, but I had no idea what to do with them. I regretted not registering for lipstick and eyeliner.
But after admiring a new bread maker, Wok and a couple of spice racks, I decided to give the old culinary thing a try. I assumed it couldn’t be that hard. My mother was a pro in the kitchen; my grandmother had taught her well. I was sure it must run in the family.
My first meal was a flop. My second was a disaster. And my third almost required a fire extinguisher. But I searched my modest repertoire of recipes and eventually served a dinner that brought a smile to J’s face. (At this point in our marriage he was very hungry.)
Piping hot chicken pie; he loved it! He ate it all, had seconds and raved about it for days afterwards. So I did what any new bride would do. I fixed it again. And again. And again. J’s enthusiasm for the dish lessened each time it sat on our round, glass table. Until he finally shrieked, “I can’t eat this. I mean I can’t eat this ever again!”
Too much of a good thing.
I’ve been guilty of it in other areas of my life.
Those lamps are beautiful, I’ll take one for each room.
I love these 30 blogs, I’ll read them daily even though it eats up 45 minutes of my morning.
I’ll sign up for five ministries at church even if I don’t have time to do each one well.
Yep, too much of a good thing never works. But I still think chicken pot pie twice a week isn’t so bad.
I am laughing out loud!
Boy I can relate to this. My dad calls it “red light green light.” All or nothing. But frankly, I could eat chicken pot pie two times a week, perhaps more.