Sometimes I wonder if my sister and I really do come from the same gene pool.
She's outgoing; when I took her to the Renaissance festival, she had to stop and chat it up with approximately every other dog owner there (and mind you, there were a lot). I'd have been content to wander around and not engage with too many people; I even tried to send out silent "don't approach" vibes to the shop owners (didn't work).
She, upon graduating high school, wants to enroll in a nearby community college's culinary arts program. Rachael Ray and Emeril Lagasse are two of her heroes. She's a food epicurean, tossing around words like "robust" and "smoky" where I would simply say "good." She frequently remembers events by the food served.
Me? I'm kitchen challenged, a failed domestic goddess, if you will. I don't like cooking, and I don't fuss over food. I'd be just as satisfied with a hamburger as a gourmet meal (indeed, I'd likely poke at the gourmet food, wondering, "what's this?" and wish for a good burger instead, or barring that, PBJ). But I try to cook, to learn new things. I can make a smashing good roast, and I'm a whiz with chicken. My chili is edible.
So, next, mac and cheese. Homemade stuff; it's quite simple. In theory. But, uh, for the record? Burnt cheese sauce is one of the worst smells ever, and I say this as someone whose high school was hit with a massive skunk attack in her sophomore year. Took ten minutes to scour that blackened stuff off the bottom of the pot.
Shoulda stuck to the ramen, man. I like noodles.