My heart swells with pride as I see my cake begin to rise in the oven. Its going to take a while to cook. Eh, might as well do something. Off I go to watch some TV without thinking of the evil plans my oven has for my cake.I am hooked to Grey's Anatomy (A television series about doctors and their lives) these days. How can you expect me to leave an important surgery that McDreamy is performing halfway and go into the kitchen? HOW? "I'll check on the cake during the next commercial" I tell myself. But wait. What is that I smell? *sniff, sniff*. My brain is alarmed. My cake has been harmed. Oh, the hard work.As I run towards to the kitchen, I see smoke coming out of the oven. Thank you Idiot Box. I burnt my cake. The damage has been done. There is no way I can revive my cake. McCook was too late. Could have saved it. Could have saved a life. (Drama is good. Sometimes.)As I cry over the sad departure of my cake I remember all the times I've done this before. I see flashes of a burnt cake, a burnt toast, a burnt dish of rice and much more. But that's how we learn, right? Making mistakes, adding too much salt, adding no salt. This incident in particular has made me realize the importance of setting the timer and the right temperature. Those guys aren't blabbering on the TV telling us the specific time and temperature. Its for our own good. That day I made a promise to my dead cake that no brother or sister of theirs will be harmed in the future. My oven timer will always be set. Amen.
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