Wherein I present bits and pieces; none of them on their own suffice, but put together, the end product may be mildly satisfying. Said bits and pieces relate, however tangentially, to the kitchen.
1. The husband and I are having a discussion about songs we are currently enjoying. He’s trying to remember the name of a song. It is becoming painful.
“You know! The fucking napkin song!” Owen says, exasperated.
I don’t know. But I do have some insight into how his mind works. Follow me down the rabbit hole that is his thought process. A napkin is a piece of cloth. A piece of cloth that would be kept in a kitchen. Other pieces of cloth in the kitchen include dish cloths, tea towels, perhaps a tablecloth. Tablecloth. “Still you feed us lies from the tablecloth”. That’s a line from the song “B.Y.O.B.”, by System of a Down. 3 cherries!!!
“Um, do you mean that System of a Down song? B.Y.O.B.?”
“Yeah!” His cherubic smile is thanks enough for the mental gymnastics I go through, each and every day on his behalf.
(If you check out my blogroll, you’ll notice a little gem called “Jason. For the Love of God.” I’ve seriously considered a companion blog: “Owen. What the Crap?”)
2. I do the majority of the laundry around here. (I’m cool with it; there are a lot of things I don’t do, like getting the oil changed, mowing the lawn, or vacuuming.) Every now and again, the husband’s wallet takes a trip through the rinse cycle. In my defense, I’m pretty sure that people who are not in the armed forces don’t need a pair of pants with 15 pockets, each of them the perfect hidey-hole for a wallet. We’re at the point where he doesn’t even get mad. He just silently empties the contents, lays them flat to dry, and tells me to put a new wallet on his Christmas list.
The last time this happened, one of the casualties was a baby picture of our son. It stayed where it had been left to dry, on the top of the fridge. It couldn’t be salvaged, but neither of us could bring ourselves to throw it out. To do so smacked of sacrilege. Number one son was rooting about on top of the fridge one day, and came across this picture.
“What? When was I in space?”
Sigh. He seemed like such a bright boy. “Hello, Harvard? About that spot you were holding…”
3. We go through a ton of hot dogs every summer. The kids love them, and so do I. I don’t even consider them a guilty pleasure: I just flat out love hot dogs. Lips and assholes, you say? Well, yes. But they’re delicately spiced and pleasantly textured lips and assholes, and I make no apologies.
For some reason, I looked down into the garbage can after throwing away the wrapper from the latest pack. You know how when you’ve seen a picture or logo so many times you don’t actually see it anymore? For some reason, I really looked at the picture this time.
The picture (sorry, this was as clear as I could make it) shows the “suggested serving”: a platter with carrots, tomatoes, broccoli, vegetable dip…and a half dozen boiled wieners. Um, really? Hot dogs as crudite? I could almost see cocktail wieners in this tableaux, but full sized hot dogs? I cannot wait for my next turn to host book club. I am totally plunking a bunch of wieners down in the middle of the veggie tray. With a straight face. (If you are in my book club, and happen to be reading this, please, do the decent thing and feign surprise and awkwardness. I have so little in my life to keep me amused.)
So there you have it; tales from the kitchen.
(You should probably hope I get tired of this series, before it hits the bathroom.)