Alright, buckle up folks, it’s time for a little culinary confession. Now, if you’re imagining the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting through my kitchen, let me burst your bubble right away. My kitchen usually smells less like a Parisian boulangerie and more like a campfire. Yes, you guessed it – I, my dear readers, am a master of disaster in the kitchen.

You know you’re a bad cook when even your pasta has trust issues, and let’s not get started on my rice. Poor thing probably has PTSD by now. Yes, indeed, I’ve turned the act of burning food into an art form. Da Vinci had his paints, Mozart had his symphonies, and I… well, I have my smoke alarm serenades.

Truth be told, I’ve burned everything from toast to pot roast, and at this point, I’m pretty sure my stove harbors a personal vendetta against me. The smoke alarm? We’re on a first-name basis. It goes off so often that my neighbors probably think I’m trying to send smoke signals.

But here’s the silver lining. Drumroll, please… I’m single! There’s no unfortunate soul who has to endure my cooking, no unsuspecting victim of my ‘gourmet’ creations. It’s just me, myself, and I, and my accidental homage to charcoal on a daily basis.

The beauty of being single is that my kitchen catastrophes are my own private comedy show. Each burnt pancake, each overcooked pot of pasta, they’re all part of this hilarious narrative of my life. It’s my own personal sitcom, where the lead character can’t cook to save her life but can sure have a good laugh about it.

So here’s my toast (preferably not burnt) to all the single people out there who can’t cook. May our smoke alarms be patient, our takeout be delicious, and our spirits remain undeterred. Because at the end of the day, life is too short to stress over a burnt casserole. Besides, we’ve got firemen, remember? They say they’re pretty good with rescues, and who knows, they might just bring dinner!