Burnt Lasagna

I'm the only Italian woman I know who can't cook. And when I say "can't," I don't mean that lightly. You should see me in the kitchen. It's a mess. I'm usually scrambling around, measuring cups flying everywhere, searching for that one missing ingredient I usually always leave out.

I never meant for it to be this way.

My mother and grandmothers all learned to cook when they were 15 -- or younger. They have recipes passed down for generations, all dishes made from scratch, and they don't have to open a book to cook them. It's ridiculous.

Growing up, they never took time to teach me. Not because they didn't have the patience. But because the women in my family are all control freaks -- especially in the kitchen. They wanted to cook their dishes their way. And that didn't include my clumsy ass messing up their timing. I usually got stuck making hardboiled eggs or no-bake cherry cheesecake (the Jell-O kind).

Now I think it's almost too late for me. I tried to make lasagna for my boyfriend the other day and almost had a panic attack when I started to layer the noodles. I had to call my mom, who laughed at my shortness of breath.

It came out a little crispy. But I've found that wearing something sexy distracts whoever's eating my burnt lasagna just enough to excuse my lack of savvy in the kitchen.

So I can't handle lasagna. But I can rock a pair of red heels like there's no tomorrow.