Jared can't cook. If I were to die, he'd starve. And that's putting it lightly.
Tonight, when I came out from my nap and I heard the timer going off, I got a little panicked. Jared has, after all, set my dish towels on fire. He's exploded things in the microwave more times than I can count. 90% of the things that he brings out of the kitchen by his own hands are abominations unto this earth that belch their bbq-ed or ketchupy stench into our apartment.
Again, I'm putting it lightly.
Tonight, though, I caught him early enough to avert a complete disaster. He decided to get a head start on our family naan making plans tonight. When I asked him, "Did you proof the yeast?" he replied, "What's proof mean?" I took that as a "No."
He had problems with measuring, and added too much sugar. Then, in a panic over adding too much sugar, he forgot the salt. I taught him to knead the dough and leave it in the warm oven with the door cracked open. He did pretty well at that.
An hour later, it rose! If it were Christmas, I would have dubbed that a Christmas miracle.
We fired up the ol' cast iron skillet since we didn't want to go out to the grill.
They didn't taste like naan, but they were still pretty good. I put cinnamon on mine and it tasted like a donut. Or maybe one of those sweet soft pretzels.
We'll have to try again. At least we had fun.