Hee hee hee! Good morning! Mr. Sg and I divide labor: he cooks (dinner) and I clean. Last evening, he decided to apply the "one-woman-nine-months-one-baby-nine-women-one-month-one-baby" principle that a lot of tech company administrators try to use in troublesome projects. It involved an oven temp of 425F, sweet potato fries and a packaged milk-chocolate brownie mix. I tried to explain what might go wrong but he was refractory because my cookbook was in a new safe place. At one point, I did shriek, "The fries are burning!" and, at that time, the brownies were raw on the inside. I found my cookbook after the whole ordeal was over, but input without documentation is unwelcome in the gypsy kitchen. (I was no help so I can't comment on the results.) I asked if he wanted me to interfere with his heretofore brilliant culinary successes by adding salt to his creations, and he agreed with the inadviseability of that approach. We have agreed that if it's lost, it's my fault, and if it's burned, it's his fault.
I'll get that in writing.
P.S. The negotiation technique of waving the brownie box in the air and changing one's facial color to mauve was ineffective in this case.