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It wasn't my lasagna that killed Uncle Orville. He loved it. He even said, "This lasagna is to die for." Just rotten luck for us both, that he bit the big one right there at the table. It was a heart attack, according to the autopsy.

I've all the necessary equipment to be the next Julia Child - without the dress. I have one of those super-duper professional stoves so powerful it's registered with the Nuclear Regulatory Commission and a fridge large enough to keep an elephant fresh for weeks. With these huge appliances, it's difficult to move in the kitchen, which has the square footage of a soup pot.

Just the other day, while I was using the Panini press, my wife squeezed into the kitchen to wash strawberries for a chocolate fondue - a $20,000 stove and here I am using a $12 cooking contraptions.

She shook them in a colander.

"Mable, Do you have to do that now?" I asked.

"Yes. The strawberries have to dry so the chocolate sticks to them."

"But you're in my way."

"We need dry strawberries."

"So, dry them with a paper towel."

"They'll get paper dust all over them. You want dusty berries?"

"I don't care. They'll be covered in chocolate like everything else you make."

"Not true."

"Oh, no? Chocolate-covered celery?"

"I was on a diet."

"Chocolate-covered shrimp?"

"They weren't covered in chocolate. It was a cocktail sauce infused with chocolate."

"Chocolate cheddar chunks. They were a big hit."

"I wouldn't talk," she said. "You think you're such a great cook? You killed your uncle."

"It was a heart attack."

"What about your pasta puttanesca that was so salty my mother had to be on Lasix for a week?"

"Pasta Puttanesca is supposed to be salty."

"It's not supposed to crunch when you chew."

"Could you please go? I have to slice the focaccia and there's no room."

"Then there was the pistachio-encrusted tilapia that you served my brother and his family. Remember that one? Two chipped teeth and bent braces because you forgot to shell the pistachios before you bashed them to bits and glued them to the fish."

"Glued"?

"Or shellacked. I don't know how you got that stuff to stick to the tilapia, but it was like chewing costume jewelry."

I remembered that. I guess I'd sampled a little too much Merlot while cooking. I decided to sample some now. While retrieving the wine, I bumped Mable's hand holding the colander. It flipped, scattering the strawberries all over the place.

"That's it. I'll wait until you're finished," I said, taking the Merlot to the other side of the counter.

While she rewashed and shook the strawberries, I sampled the wine. "You know," I said. "You're going to bruise those poor things."

"Keep it up; I'm going to bruise you."

I took Mable's last comment as a warning to shut up, so I kept drinking. Soon, I was back slicing the focaccia as well as my finger. One Goofy bandage later, I pressed my hand along with the Panini.

After some burn cream and gauze, I again, sat at the counter while Mable finished cooking. "That's the problem," I said. "I need a bigger kitchen. My cooking would be so much better."

"You can't cook to save your life," Mable said. Then she placed dinner on the table. Ever have a turkey, Swiss and radicchio panini with a slice of semi-sweet chocolate melted in there? I have to admit, it is to die for.

- Robert Curreli

Robert Curreli has stories and articles littering the internet includingHumor Press, eFiction and Commuter Lit.You can find more of his writing here.