Pretty much accurate...

It's January 2013. It's dark, cold and I'm hungry. One big problem: my parents aren't home and I can't cook. Lucky for me, one of my friends invites me over at his place for dinner.
'You honestly can't cook?' my friend asks as we cycle to his house. 'Not even pasta?!'
'Nope. Not even pasta.' I sighed. 'I'm so going to need a house elf when I move out...'

I was sixteen when this conversation took place. At that age I loved the idea of having my own Dobby. My parents weren't a big fan of this plan, probably because house elfs usually don't work for muggles.
As I grew older, I began to realize that the muggle alternative for a house elf, a boyfriend, was out of the question too, because guys never look at me twice, and that I'll be living alone when I move out. Which meant one thing: I needed to learn how to cook.

My first cooking adventure that didn't include simply throwing pasta in boiling water took place in November. My mom gave me one of her Jamie Oliver books and I picked the easiest recipe I could find: Mexican Ceasar Salad. Chop up some lettuce and tomatoes, throw it in a bowl and done. Piece of cake, I thought.
It was no piece of cake, as it turned out. First of all there was the problem of the avocade: I don't like avocado. After staring at the book for half an hour and making my problem way bigger than it actually was, I decided to simply eliminate the avocado from the recipe. Problem effectively solved.
The second problem arose when I took over the kitchen. My mom was helping me out, but she got nervous when I started chopping up stuff. I don't know why but I love chopping stuff. This passion for chopping veggies freaked my mom out. She was constantly afraid I was going to chop off my fingers too. That didn't happen. I chopped the lettuce, tomatoes and cucumber so beautifully, a top chef would have been jealous of my skills.
I moved on to the chicken. This salad wasn't as easy as throwing lettuce and tomatoes in a bowl, oh no, there was chicken that somehow had to be seasoned. I had no idea how, so I threw it all in a platic garbage bag, chicken and spices, and shook it until all the spices were stuck to the chicken. It looked great in a messy way. Except for one thing: the chicken breasts had to be flat, and these things were far from flat. I was perfectly well aware of the fact that they had to be flat. In fact, it was one of the reasons why I chose the recipe: this meant I'd have to hit the chicken until it was flat. My mom has exactly the right tool for this task: a huge wooden hammer, which looks a remarkable lot like Thor's. I couldn't wait to use this thing and do my best Thor impression ever, but... it was lost. Really lost, even my mom couldn't find it. We used a rolling pin instead. I put all my power into hitting that chicken. It caused so much noise that the neighbours must have thought the Third World War had begun. It was worth it though, because the results were terrific: the chicken was flat and looked a remarkable lot like South America.
Once the chicken was in our grilling pan, I could concentrate on the bacon. Another one of the reasons why I wanted to make this salad: Bacon! I was supposed to have tiny slices in my salad, but hey, when it comes to bacon there's no such thing as adding too much.

Everything was going well, surprisingly well. I was almost done and even though the kitchen looked like a warzone, nothing had exploded in my face yet, no fingers were injured and no food had fallen on the floor. I had only one more thing to do: make the yoghurt-based dressing. And that's where it all went wrong.
I put yoghurt in a bowl, added a little more cheese than Jamie Oliver would have wanted me to (Dutch girls and cheese, it's just meant to be) and then added a swig of olive oil to the mix. But the swig turned into a major spillage and suddenly all I tasted was olive oil...
Of course I tried to fix it. First with more yoghurt. Then with even more cheese. When that didn't work out I throw in some more yoghurt and called it quits. It kept tasting like olive oil, but there was no going back now: I didn't have enough yoghurt to start over again...
So I finally got to throw everything in a bowl, mixed it a bit up, put my olive oily dressing over it and served the chicken on top of it, which looked great in the book, but not so much when I did it in real life.

My parents ate the salad without complaining, which was nice of them. But I think that was the day I proved for once and all that I really, really can't cook. I'm not planning on moving out anytime soon, but when I do I'm definitely going to need a house elf. Interested in the job? Send me an email: Anyone who can cook an egg without screwing it up has high chances of getting the job!

Stay Awesome!