Grandma’s Roasted Mix-Up
It was Sunday afternoon, and Grandma Doris was feeling proud of herself. She had prepared the perfect chicken—seasoned just right and ready to carve. She sat in her rocking chair, humming softly, the bird cradled in her lap like a precious treasure.
But in the kitchen, trouble was brewing… literally. The oven was still running, smoke pouring out of it in thick black clouds. The smell of something very burnt filled the air.
See, Doris had forgotten that the chicken she was holding wasn’t the one she had been cooking—it was a fresh one she’d just taken from the fridge to “get it ready.” Meanwhile, the real dinner had been roasting away for far too long, slowly turning into a lump of charcoal.
On the wall behind her, framed photos of her beloved cats looked down as if judging the scene, their eyes wide with silent disbelief.
By the time Doris noticed the smoke, it was too late. She laughed to herself, shaking her head. “Well,” she said, “looks like it’s sandwiches for dinner.”
And just like that, another memorable kitchen story was born—one her family would tease her about for years to come.
