As long as we're talking about failure, I would like to mention last night's failed dinner. I intended to make tilapia with an herb caper sauce and a salad of mache, basil, heirloom tomatoes and feta. The salad was fine. Better than fine, actually. The salad was fabulous. The basil and tomatoes were fresh from our garden. We had the same salad the night before, but it was good enough to eat two nights in a row, which is not something I do often. But, seeing as I was, apparently, fully committed to failure, I didn't get a picture. 
The first fail happened with the herb caper sauce, which was originally meant to be a dill and caper yogurt sauce, with a grating of lemon zest. The dill, however, smelled like a homeless person, so I switched to tarragon from the garden. When I reached into the fridge for a lemon, the entire bowl of (seven? eight?) lemons had gone bad. Soft, spotty, mushy nastiness. I made do with what I did have, and the sauce was still pretty tasty. Or would have been if we had actually remembered to put it on the fish, which we didn't. We completely forgot about it. A fact that only came to my attention this morning, when I found it sitting on the cutting board. Exactly where I had left it about twelve hours earlier.
I did get a picture of the fiasco I made of the fish, which stuck to the pan horribly, despite a generous coating of olive oil, in a supposedly non-stick pan. The fish was bland but palatable. Finnegan ate more of it than I did, so at least someone was happy with his dinner.
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