How now, how now, brown cow?

My friends really have it rough. Like, really rough. It's not enough that they have to field phone calls or emails or face-to-face conversations in which I ask them to help me figure out my life. It's not enough that they have to listen to my verbose explorations into the nuances of strange social interactions with boys. On top of all that, I do something even worse.

Sometimes, I cook for them. I say, "Friends, this is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you." And they say, "Doubtful."

Last night, was one of those times. The victims: Ollie, Jeff, and Carly. The device of torture: "Stuff-It-With-Bacon Meatloaf." (Street name: Brown Cow. Get it? Meatloaf is brown. It's cow.)

Want to know how to do it? You can make it in ten easy steps.

STEP ONE: Light the prayer candle that you purchased for seventy-eight cents from the Winco (I went a little overboard while in the Mexican aisle, prepping for a past week's taco night). The Saint: San Judas (pronounced Hoo-das), or St. Jude. Patron Saint of loaves of meat.

STEP TWO: Utter the prayer. "Dear St. Jude, Please allow me to make something that tastes good and makes nobody ill. Please watch over me and my questionable knife-skills, and allow me to keep all my fingertips. Help me not to freak out at the quantity of raw meat I'm about to work with. Amen. Sincerely, Kendall." (btw: I always frame my prayers in the form of a written letter. I think Saints appreciate the formality. Also, I'm Presbyterian, so do I even believe in praying to Saints? Bah, leave that for another post.)

STEP THREE: Lay out all the groceries. Arrange them so they look good for a photo, since this will be blogged about, obviously. (There is no way to make ground beef photogenic, so don't even try.)

STEP FOUR: Make some freaking meatloaf! Burn the bacon! Gasp when the bacon burns you! Cry your eyes out while you slice the onion, poorly! Get your hands in some meat! Put it in the pan. Pant. Wipe your forehead. Blow out the the prayer candle.

STEP FIVE: Go to the gym, to try and do something positive with all the anxiety you feel. Notice, as you sit on the exercise bike, that something smells a lot like bacon. Realize, shamefully, that it is you. You are the person in the gym who smells like smoked meat. Watch Ina Garten on the Barefoot Contessa. Observe how, when she cooks, it looks nothing like how you cook. Try to memorize everything. Think to yourself: I LOVE Ina Garten. I bet even when she cooks with bacon, she doesn't smell like bacon. Go home and take a shower.

STEP SIX: Realize that you are about to cheat. Look at the side vegetables--potatoes and green beans--and acknowledge that, besides "butter," you have no real idea how to prepare them. No matter, you will show up to dinner with raw vegetables, and then stand lamely in the doorway of the kitchen while Jeff (who is under the impression that you are making him dinner) says, "What did you plan to do with the beans?" "Uh...." "Did you plan to steam them maybe?" "Well, yes, yes I did." "Do you want me to steam them, then?" "Well, yes, thank you. Only if you want to."

STEP SEVEN: While Jeff makes the dinner you promised to make him, play with the cute baby. She is seriously such a cute baby. Decorate Christmas cookies--it doesn't matter that Ollie and Carly are substantially more creative than you. YOU'RE making dinner (Jeff is currently making dinner).

STEP EIGHT: Make sure people do not sit down to eat until they've have some wine, made Christmas cookies, and are feeling very generous of spirit, indeed. Bother your friends by holding up dinner to take more pictures for the blog you'll be writing the following day.

STEP NINE. Eat dinner.

STEP TEN: In between privately congratulating yourself for a meal well-made, and haranguing yourself for not actually making the vegetables (next time, next time), reflect on how lucky it is to have people to cook for--no matter how much fretting you do ahead of time--especially when those people tell you that what you've made is good. Think to yourself that the impulse we have to feed the people we care about is one of the nicest impulses of all.

There you have it. Probably, some big-time editor is going to read this blog (I do have FIVE followers, albeit shadowy, anonymous ones, so this thing is totally taking off) and I'll have my own cookbook before you know it.