Wednesday, November 11, 2015

                                         
FOWL MOOD   



     I have many talents. Cooking is not one of them. Cooking is for people who enjoy eating. I prefer drinking. Eating is so self-defeating. You eat, then you have to work out to make sure that whatever good things you might have ingested get sent to wherever they are supposed to go. We won’t talk about the bad things we may have consumed. I just figure if you don’t eat, you don’t have to work out, and think about all the sweat you would save and workout clothes you wouldn’t have to buy, wash, dry, fold and put away.

   Tonight I attempted to follow a recipe. Following recipes always gets me in trouble. When I was briefly into cooking, right after my first marriage in 1967, I collected some great recipes from my mother’s friend, Cora. She was a great cook, and it showed. I memorized those four or five recipes, and I’ve been making them ever since. Mr. Wonderful loves those recipes, and he doesn’t understand why I insist on trying new ones. Come on, it’s been 48 years—-isn’t it time?
Nope. Based on tonight’s disaster, I need to go back to the basic five. 

     The chicken was dry, the salad had too much dressing, the canned corn tasted like—-well, canned corn, and the wine bottle was empty. That pretty much describes my failure. I felt bad, as we both enjoy a nice dinner while we share our days’ activities. I smothered my dry chicken with the canned corn. At least, I couldn’t taste the chicken, so that worked for me. I knew I had put too much dressing on the salad, but when I measured it a few years ago, he bitched that there wasn’t enough. I guess the answer is to put the damned bottle on the table, and let him pour his own. Then, at least it’s not my fault. I was doing fine with my failed fowl and his foul mood until he said, “and there was way too much dressing on the salad.” wtf. It wasn’t like he didn’t know I had already fouled up the chicken. Did he have to rub it in? Sometimes men are really stupid.

     He knows his punishment for pissing me off. I’m fine with the fabulous five for the rest of my life. Next time, however, I might just drown mine in vodka.