Chicken BiG PooPoo

I have never had a talent for cooking. Let me step back and say I have also never had a desire to learn how to cook.  I am the middle child in all sense of the word. I have two sisters on older and one younger. Both of which can create masterpieces in the kitchen. (I love it when they cook!) Now I would like you to believe that my mother taught my older sister to cook but was too busy to teach me. And then she then realized her mistake of not teaching me and schooled my little sister.  Secretly this is what I think happened... but that is probably wrong.
Which leads to my story about this week's Sunday night dinner. My mom and I had decided that it we would have roast beef and mashed potatoes and gravy.
Side note: I learned how to make roast beef in the crock pot to impress a guy. The twist of that is I never really made him roast beef but just bragged about how yummy it was in my tummy. This might be reason number 849 of why I am single, to impress the man you actually may have to cook for him... note to self.
My mother makes wonderful mash potatoes and gravy. I do not know how to make either of those things. Once I was asked to make mash potatoes for a dinner party. I had to confess the truth, I was unsure what happened after the peeling portion of the project was done. My assignment was quickly changed to bringing a salad.  I love being rewarded for my ignorance, bagged salad is a wicked easy assignment.  So Sunday night I was reading a book, while my mom was cooking (pot roast does not need a lot of tending, or maybe it does and I just am not aware of it.) Anyway, I let it spill that I did not know how to make gravy. My mom offered to teach me, but I said maybe next time. And I think a silent sigh of relief escaped from my mom. You might say to yourself no sigh came but that is because I haven't shared the following story.
Picture it, a high school debate nerd such as myself who could not cook. Her older sister could make casseroles and cookies, her younger sister could make other dreamy concoctions. But the middle child lacked skill and a desire to learn. It was somewhere around my junior year that my mother threw down the ultimatum.  One Sunday a month it was going to be my assignment to cook Sunday dinner for my family. The first dinner went off rather well, I made chicken enchiladas and my family was really pleased with my cooking. But honestly, it was a lot of work and the reward was hollow to my weary soul. It was then that I realized if I kept cooking well for my family my assignment would never go away and that was simply not a good option and then I remembered eating a cajun dish at my father's house called Chicken Big Mamoo. It called for three different peppers, red, white, and black. If made correctly it was really good and spicy. If made incorrectly it was really hot and gave everyone the bad tummy bubbles. You know the kind that speak to you right before they want to show up for visit with a rumbling pain that says it is not an option at that moment to ignore your stomach.  Yep Chicken Big Mamoo was renamed to Chicken big poopoo.

Now I will go down to my grave saying I really meant to cook a cajun dish that the whole family could enjoy. I was not trying to inflict a 24 hour lifestyle restriction to the bathroom on my family.  But having declared will all conviction I am innocent of purposely inflicting bodily harm upon those who partook of my meal. I will quietly say as a secret between you and me, nope I never had to cook Sunday dinner again.  Is that rewarding bad behavior or simply a protection mechanism against a bad cook? If you would like deciding, I would be more than happy to cook a cajun dish for you?  Ahh, there is the answer.