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I have a confession to make: at the age of 27, I finally used a grill on my own.

This may sound trivial and silly to you, but this is a milestone for someone who has a terrible track record in the kitchen.

My fiancé Ross is the chef of the house, and I’m lucky to have a person in my life that makes my heart and stomach happy. But I am determined to get more acclimated in the realm of cooking, so I fired up the grill and hoped for the best.

Some people are gifted in the area of cooking. I am not. So much so that when I was marinating the chicken, I managed to drop several chicken breasts on the floor. I applied the five-second rule, ran them under some water, and started again, my confidence slowly dwindling.

I have been terrified of using the grill for years for fear of blowing up. It sounds ridiculous, but when I was a kid, I witnessed my uncle light the grill and a ball of fire exploded from the inside, making my uncle duck for cover. At the time, I thought that was commonplace with the grill, but it turns out someone left the gas tank on.

I am proud to report I lit up the grill successfully and cooked the chicken to perfection, but after that awkward and anxious experience, I think I’m going to let Ross be the head chef of the Levine household for a little while.