Damn you Nigella
My one goal today was to make a brownie. Not just any brownie mind you; none of that cakey, fluffy crap, but the chewy dense mass of chocolate that will have you scrambling to the nearest gym.
Alas, it was not to be. Overcooked and bitter, my one saving grace is that the boys will probably not know better and will be too distracted by the soccer to take note of the embarrassing mess they'll be eating. Despite my best intentions I seem to be on no fast-track to adding "domestic goddess" to my CV. Nigella cannot possibly be a true mortal, how can one be so successful in the kitchen and still resemble some insanely beautiful Greek deity? I'm sick with jealousy Nigella; jealous of your impossibly perfect pavlova and of your gravity-defying cleavage.
So, disenchanted, I thought a good option would be to force my opinions on the rest of the world and write yet another blog. It's getting late and although I'm supposed to be filling out my intern application, I think answering questions like: "Describe your commitment to the promotion, protection, maintenance and restoration of the health of the people of Western Australia (350 words)" is not compatible nor advisable for my current state of ambivalence. I knew I should've paid someone to fill it in for me.
Is it too late to change careers?
