Write about your most epic baking or cooking fail.

Dear Congregation of Culinary Misfits,

Gather ’round, ye seekers of kitchen wisdom, for today I shall regale you with a tale so utterly disastrous that it rivals the most epic of kitchen fails. Brace yourselves, for this tale of Thanksgiving woe involves a calamitous gravy-making endeavor, a projectile plate, and an ex-husband’s quest for biscuits and gravy salvation!

Once upon a time, in the quaint little village of Thanksgivingville, our protagonist (that’s me!) embarked on a mission to make the perfect gravy. Armed with a recipe that promised gravy nirvana, I set out with unwavering determination to create a sauce that would have the angels singing. Little did I know, this would be a Thanksgiving to remember for all the wrong reasons.

Stage one: The Mysterious Lumps
With confidence oozing like poorly made gravy, I followed the recipe to a tee—or so I thought. Flour, fat, and turkey drippings danced in my saucepan like an awkward ballet troupe. Alas, despite my stirring efforts, the gravy began to resemble something out of a science fiction horror show. Mysterious lumps emerged, creating a gravy that could double as a geological map of Mars.

Stage two: The Ex-Husband’s Fury
Enter the ex-husband, who had been lurking ominously in the background, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Thanksgiving morning dawned, and as I proudly presented my “gravy masterpiece” to the table, a look of sheer terror crossed his face. Without warning, he picked up his plate, declared it an “abomination,” and hurled it into the wall with the force of a thousand turkey roasts. The plate shattered, and my dreams of gravy glory shattered with it.

Stage three: The Local Gravy Rebellion
With the house full of astonished guests and shards of plate littering the dining room, my ex-husband made a hasty exit. But not for a quiet walk to clear his anger, oh no. He marched straight to the local “Stop and Rob,” or “Stop and Robbery” as we affectionately call it, to satisfy his biscuit and gravy cravings. As if my gravy fiasco hadn’t provided enough entertainment, he returned with biscuits swimming in a store-bought gravy that he declared “a culinary masterpiece.”

In the end, our Thanksgiving was a spectacle of epic proportions. I had failed spectacularly at making gravy, my ex-husband had staged a revolt in favor of store-bought biscuits and gravy, and our guests were left to dine amidst the wreckage.

So, dear congregants of culinary chaos, let this tale serve as a reminder that sometimes the most memorable meals are the ones that don’t go as planned. And if your gravy-making skills ever fail you, fear not, for there’s always a “Stop and Rob” nearby with biscuits and gravy that even your ex-husband can’t resist.

Yours in saucy solidarity,