About two hours ago, I decided, "Hey, I'm hungry. I think I'll make one of those disgusting looking french-bread pizzas that have been sitting in the freezer for the last few weeks, because we have nothing else to eat in the house."
So, naturally, I look at the box and say, "Half an hour? Shoot dang, I'm not cooking this thing in the oven for 30 minutes! I've got things to do! I'm hungry!" because, really, what else is there to say?
I decide to pop it in the ancient looking toaster oven, hoping against hope that it'll cook faster than the oven, but not make it all gross and soggy and half-way cooked like the ancient microwave we have in this house.
Needless to say, it burned the heck out of that poor little frenchbread pizza in less than six minutes.
But what's making me wonder... it's been over two hours, and despite the fact that I opened all the kitchen windows, turned on the overhead fan in the kitchen, and the microwave/fan/thing over the oven on full blast (making Diego run under the bed because it sounds like a jet plane is about to take off from our front porch), it still smells horrendously disgusting in here.
I had chocolate milk for lunch.
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