I was seven, and I considered myself a genius of cooking because of my mother's repeatedly praised ability to cook sausages without burning a pot.



That day I came back from school. My parents didn’t come from work yet, so I could watch TV. He was alone and stood in the most prominent place in the living room. They showed a culinary show.



- To prepare a home caramel is very and very simple, - said the uncle of the host with a smile. He had a very disposable face, you trust him right away. You need sugar, a little water and a pot.



Since it is very simple, I need to cook it, I decided and went to the kitchen. She mixed sugar with water, put it on a strong fire and waited. However, the contents of the pot did not rush to become caramel. I went to the television for explanations.



- The main thing in the preparation of home caramel is the constant mixing, - with a smile explained the good host.



Not a question! I ran to the kitchen, took a tablespoon and boldly swung up with the pot with the intention of mixing everything. At this point, the sugar mass bullied, the spoon obediently entered and froze. Now it could not be pulled out, nothing could be mixed with it either.



How is it? I was upset and ran to ask for advice from a good uncle from the TV.



If your caramel is too thick, don’t be upset. You can always add a little water to it, the good guide explained in detail.



exactly! How did he guess? I ran into the kitchen, poured water and looked carefully inside, whether it was time to mix. The black mass at the bottom under a layer of transparent water was not like the golden caramel from a TV.



What kind of shit? I wanted to get angry, but I didn’t have time. The pot began to black rapidly. In panic, I still guessed to turn off the plate and remove my cooking masterpiece from it. You could now watch the broadcast.



Now that your caramel is ready, you need to wash the pot. To do this, it is enough to pour it with hot water.



I seemed to do everything according to the instructions, but the spoon was still not pulled out. Mom had to come soon. In order not to be caught with my shame, I wrapped the pot together with a spoonful in a bag and, looking shy around, took it to the garbage.



A month later, my mother asked me:

Have you seen a pot in a flower? I don’t remember where I put it.



It’s been more than twenty years, maybe you should tell her?