So one day I was by myself at home and it was about dinner time when I chose to cook something for myself. I opened the freezer and rummaged around until I found what looked like chicken nuggets in an unopened plastic bag that, for some reason, didn’t have any cooking instructions. Believing my parents had discarded the box for box tops, I called my mom to find out the cooking time and temperature for chicken nuggets. She told me both of them, I laid out about 20 on a tray and stuck it in the oven, setting the timer before I walked out of the kitchen. As the timer was about to go off, I entered a kitchen that smelled like cinnamon. I explored the kitchen, trying to identify where the cinnamon scent was coming from, and it brought me to the oven. I turned on the oven light to see if my mom had maybe left some cookies in there, but to my surprise, the tray I had put chicken nuggets on now had cookies on it!. While processing this, I heard the front door open and my mom cheerfully say, “Ooooo what’s that smell?”. She walked into the kitchen and saw my puzzled look. Then, it dawned on her, and she understood what had taken place. Somehow in some form, I had accidentally baked snickerdoodles. And that’s why my parents can never take my cooking seriously.