My poor departed grandmother was raised in an orpahnage, so she didn’t really have a lot of good cooking role models. My dad used to joke that we should never give her more than a few hours’ warning that we were coming to visit, because if we gave her, say, three days’ notice, that’s when she’d put the chicken in the oven.
Dad was the same way when my parents split up; he couldn’t fathom why turning up the heat twice as high didn’t just make everything cook twice as fast. He’s much better now, thank goodness, because my stepmom can’t cook to save her life, either. I wanted to throttle her once for ruining my recipe; we came home covered in 18" of slush after schlepping 5 hours round-trip to my uncle’s funeral, only to find out it had been postponed. I dragged my wwet, exhausted, depressed ass to the grocery store to buy the makings of pot roast, assembled everything, and put it in the Crock-Pot on low so it would be ready for dinner. An hour later, while I was taking a much-needed nap, she decided it wasn’t cooking fast enough, so she dumped everything into an (uncovered) lasagna pan and put it in the oven on 350. By the time I woke up and realized what was going on, my poor pot roast had the approximate texture of shoe leather.