My mom had many talents but unfortunately, cooking wasn’t one of them. Whatever she tried to cook came out burnt or still raw. All her dishes lacked flavor and smelled horrible. It was a disaster whenever she was in the kitchen.  My mom’s worst dish was meatloaf. The meat was always pink and the sauce came out lumpy. She would try to put the meat back in the oven to let it cook longer and the results were ashes.
    “What’s for dinner?” my brothers and sisters will ask, eager to eat something.
    “Meatloaf!” my mother will reply.
   All the color will drain from our faces, memories of raw meat flooding through our minds.
“Maybe I’ll just order pizza,” my dad would suggest, getting ready to call the local pizzeria.
“It’ll be better this time, I promise!” she would plead.
We all knew it wouldn’t be better this time but we gave her another chance as usual.
An hour or so later my mom would emerge from the kitchen, face covered in pieces of meat and her dark brown hair coated with layers and layers of tomato sauce.
She would look at us, defeated and tired.
“Just order the pizza already,” She would huff, annoyed.