...We've all got them.

Everyone has their own little quirks, right?

Which is, I think, just a nice way of saying that everyone has a few anal retentive tendencies. So, whether you have to spread your butter on your bread a certain way, or you like the door all the way closed in whatever room you are in...we've all got them.

I.... may have more than most. I try really REALLY hard hide them, but that's almost a laughable idea despite my valiant effort.

Sure my closet is not only organized by sleeve length, but it's also color coordinated. And every. single. time. I make coffee, I put the amount I actually need in the filter and then add a little more "for good luck." Aaaand there is that thing that whenever I have to drink liquid medicine I don't think I've ever done it without first saying (usually in my head) "One for the money. Two for the show. Three to get ready. And four to go." Oh! And I may or may not cleanmyroom/dorm/houseeverynightbeforeigotobedbecauseIreallylikewakinguptoacleanplace. Please don't judge.

However....none of those are my worst.

My worst? My almost neeeeeed for everything I cook to be perfect. It's not just that I want it to taste good, or even that I want to impress anyone... I just almost have a mental meltdown whenever something doesn't go according to plan. Okay...maybe not a total mental meltdown but I am just tempted to try to throw an entire made-from-scratch apple pie in the trash if my crust isn't right or threaten to flush $15 of meat in the toilet because it's not as tender as I wanted it to be, or maybe I have told people to not eat any of my cookies because my last dozen didn't quite make it out exactly at the end of the dreaded "seventh minute." Nothing major.

Needless to say this whole cooking twice a day thing was a worry for me. And by a worry....I mean a constant one that lasted more than entire semester before I actually started this gig.

You see, I cook not only for my self and Lance, who would eat almost anything I cooked (maybe even vegetables), but six other guys that I hardly know. My level of anxiety starting this whole ordeal... was... ummm nightmare producing.

Men. They eat meat. Or meat and potatoes. Or sometimes potatoes and meat.

I. I make casseroles. Or pasta. Or dessert and pasta. Or sometimes casseroles and dessert. (Because Mom never really liked cooking...so we never had much "meat and potatoes" because you couldn't order that from Sonic or Taco Mayo.)

So the nightmares? Totally not joking. I dreamed of all these men coming over to my trailer and smiling as they scooped up a hearty helping of "Casserole of the Day" on to their plates as they joked and ate and later thanked me for the meal.

THEN. When they walked back to their trailer making awful threats under their breath like,
"If she makes us one more casserole..."
"I'm...I'm gonna throw a 13"x 9" pan at her!"
Very well knowing that if they want to keep their jobs they had best say please and thank you and clean their plates.

Well friends....the cooking has started and I still have not had a casserole dish thrown at me yet...but we are only a fraction of a way into the season....

I'll keep you posted. :)
I might even include a picture of a broken nose if I need to.