Do not critique food made by someone holding 400 degrees.
Feedback is best delivered from another postcode.
Oven mitts
For the chef who has had enough feedback for one lifetime.
The recipe said 20 minutes. That was a personal attack.
Twenty minutes, plus a brief emotional collapse.
Careful. This lasagna contains six hours of resentment.
Serves six. Resents eight.
I followed the recipe until it got bossy.
The oregano and I are no longer taking orders.
No substitutions. No suggestions. No witnesses.
Dinner is served. This conversation is over.
I've burned myself for people who won't unload the dishwasher.
The oven has manners. Unlike some people.
Tonight's special: I should've ordered pizza.
Pairs beautifully with an open delivery app.
It's a fucking casserole, not a performance review.
Please save your notes for a restaurant that asked.
If you don't like it, congratulations. You're cooking tomorrow.
Congratulations on your promotion to head chef.
The secret ingredient is how much I hate doing this.
Made with love. And a frankly alarming amount of muttering.
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