Careful. This lasagna contains six hours of resentment.
Serves six. Resents eight.
Everyone's hungry. Nobody's helping.
Domestic tools for people who have already answered “what's for dinner?” three times.
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.
My customer service voice is still loading.
Please enjoy this brief period of honest facial expressions.
I woke up defensive.
No questions. Especially cheerful ones.
Please don't make me form a complete thought.
Single syllables only until further notice.
I am not the morning shift manager.
Take it up with whoever scheduled the sunrise.
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