This is me in action:

Last night in a fury of hunger, I bought 2 pounds of ground beef, a couple of onions, some peppers and a secret blend of spices. My goal was to make the best pot of chili ever. I’ve done it before.

So I went about doing it—browning the meat, chopping the veggies, seasoning the mix, you know, all that fun stuff that makes you feel like you have a cooking show on the Food TV Network.

I let the mix become one as I watched the Olympics, a baseball game or two, and cartoons. I got up to stir it every 10 minutes or so. It was evolving into a fucking cauldron of magic spicy beef.

Then my phone rang and I was in conversation for an hour. Then it rang again, and it was a really boring conversation, but I stayed with it. For an hour. By the time it was over my fucking eyelids were fluttering. So I closed my eyes for just a minute to “wake myself up”.

I am the stupidest person in the world.

I woke up 6 hours later to the smell of acrid tomatoes.

I was all, “What the fuck is that smell?”

I walked to the kitchen and took a look at the giant cauldron on my stove.

Shit.

I just cooked up a two-pound chili brick.

The meat and beloved cooking vessel are now one in food gone wrong heaven.

Here’s the sad part.

I chiseled off a few crumbs and chewed them. Not bad. I think I invented a new breakfast cereal. Chili-Os!