Burning down the house.

So far this week I have burned two sheets of cookies, three artichokes, the beginnings of matzoh ball soup, and four pancakes. Not just too-browned burned but call 9-1-1 burned. 

I have divorce-onset ADD (DOADD). In the middle of cooking, I'll suddenly decide that new file folders will fix my life, jump in the car, and drive to the nearest Office Depot only to return to a house full of smoke and a pan so hot it leaves this burn mark on the back deck. 

My son says the inside of our house "smells like Italy." I think he means it smells like the scent of burning leaves that lingered in the valley in Ascoli where we stayed. Either that or there were a lot of Italian women burning the crap out of dinner every night.