"Silent Witness" - mini-mystery published in Woman's World September 27, 2005.

"Don't Bet on It" - short story published online at: RavenElectrick.com n 6/24/05.

"It Pays to be Nice" mini-mystery published in Woman's World (12/07/04)

"Consensus" - Winning essay that deals with the challenges and triumphs of declaring yourself a writer.

Cooking, Genetically Speaking" Humorous personal essay published in NEWN Spring, 2001.

"Re-Alignment" - Winning essay published in NEWN - Spring, 2003.

"The Best Medicine" - a romantic short story published in Woman's World December 3, 2002.

"Well Enough Alone" - A humorous personal essay about Feng Shui run amok. Published in NEWN - Spring, 2000.

I suffer from one of the most prevalent conditions ailing humankind - the inability to cook. Of course I can boil a pot of water and whip up some Kraft macaroni and cheese, or microwave a vat of Campbell's tomato soup, but let's face it, that ain't cooking.

Now I can hear what you're saying, anybody who really wants to cook can learn. But I disagree, for I am of the firm belief that the ability to cook is something one is genetically predisposed to, like drawing or singing. We may diligently watch the multitudes of cooking programs found on television or take a cooking class, but if we don't have the proper DNA, it will be a tremendous struggle and ultimately a losing battle.

And if you share my situation, you know exactly what I mean. In fact, at this very moment, a laundry list of past culinary catastrophes is forming in your mind. My first disaster came at the tender age of ten in the form of an apple cake. I lined up all the ingredients, carefully measuring out the flour, the apples, and everything else the recipe called for. Then I made the fatal mistake of substituting baking soda for baking powder. Now, any cook worth their salt knows that that little faux pas will guarantee you a baked good that the Boston Bruins (hockey team) could use for shooting practice. And sure enough, I was rewarded with an apple brick that measured only half an inch in height, and was as heavy as a marble slab.

But that was only the beginning. Over the years I have experienced a plethora of mealtime misfortunes. There was the Chinese cooking calamity in which the vegetables came out mushy, the chicken burnt, and the sauce runny - not exactly what the recipe had promised. Of course I cannot forget the lopsided, raw-in-the-middle brownies, the rubbery chicken swimming in scorched cream sauce, and the ham and cheese omelets that resembled nuclear waste.

I have burnt, flopped, singed, diluted, over-beat, and stuck-to-the-pan just about any type of cooking you can imagine. And my life had become an endless sea of scullery mishaps, punctuated by tears, tantrums, and the inevitable call for take-out. And I have purchased nearly every cookbook written to prove it: Betty Crocker, Mrs. Field's, and The Joy of Cooking - now that's an oxymoron. I have recipes for cookies, cakes, brownies and squares, casseroles, canapés, soufflés, and crepes. It was enough to drive me out of my mind, and it nearly did.

But in recent years, through countless hours of soul-searching, surrounded by empty pizza boxes, I have come to terms with my deficit. I finally realize that I do not have to be a Martha Stewart to be a valued member of my family, my community, and my country, and that realization has set me free. During this process of liberation, I have discovered many famous people who are in the same boat. Calista Flockart, who plays Ally McBeal on television, doesn't know how to cook. She's an obvious one because it's clear the woman doesn't eat. Queen Elizabeth of England is incapable of cooking. With a household staff the size of an army, who needs to know how to do anything as mundane as cooking? In fact all members of the royal family join her in her culinary deficit. Through years of careful inbreeding, the cooking gene has been weeded out of the royal bloodline, along with a few other traits, like a sense of humor and the ability to smile. Brad Pitt is another famous person who can't cook. With a face like that, he shouldn't have to lift a finger to do anything except look good.

I have a suspicion that a lot more people are of my genetic makeup than would care to admit. Although the sale of cookbooks is a very profitable business, I believe many people buy them out of desperation, hanging onto the hope that the next tome on Tasty Tofu Treats or Five-Alarm Barbecue will hold the magic cure for lousy cooking. But they don't help. How do I know this? Because if those of us who are buying all those cookbooks actually used them, the fast food industry would collapse almost overnight. But what is most harmful about this situation is that those of us who are genetically hampered feel we cannot be open about our inadequacies. We feel pressured to keep buying cookbooks, to invest in cooking classes, and to spend fortunes redoing kitchens; the one room in our homes that exists solely to highlight our disabilities. As a population, we need to stand proud and stop wasting time going against our true selves. We should follow our hearts and use the talents we have been given instead of trying to fight genetics. Could Pavarotti have been a ballet dancer? Julia Child a rodeo clown? Renoir a sales clerk at the local Seven-Eleven? No, of course not. And why not? Because they all listened to their hearts and did not try to become something they were not meant to be.

Since I am no longer in denial, I feel a heavy burden has been lifted from my shoulders. And now, when I heat up the family-sized can of Spaghettios and dump a pile of raw carrot sticks on a plate and call it dinner, I know longer feel the guilt that had previously plagued me. For if my family starts whining about the questionable cuisine, I stare at them and say, "What do you expect, I'm genetically incapable!" They haven't yet come up with an answer to that.

We all need to know our limitations. I certainly know mine and cooking is outside of those parameters. But I will revel in the talents I do have, be grateful for the drive-thru, and take comfort in the words of French poet Hilaire Belloc, "Be content to remember that those who can make omelets properly can do nothing else".