I love to cook. I like taking recipes, adapting steps, and stretching the culinary portion of my abilities. Of course, this means that every so often, I do something kinda stupid. Like last night.
Scenario: 8:15 p.m. Jacob had, after a no-nap day, gone to sleep. Laureen was hungry, and I had just come home from work about 30 minutes earlier.? She said, “Food. Hot. Now.”
Okay, I can deal with those parameters. So, it’s off to the kitchen to make a stoup — what Rachel Ray calls a cross between a soup and a stew. This one is pretty easy:
2 28 oz. cans of diced tomatoes
1 onion, chopped
4 slices of bacon, chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 can wax beans
1 smidgen of frozen corn
The time comes to put the tomatoes in the already cooked bacon and onion. So, I go to the electric can opener. It can’t get a grip on the lip of the can. Try again. Fail again. Try again, again. Fail again, again. See a pattern?
Well, I whip out the church key (you know, that can opener that punctures cans with triangular indentations) and set to work, forsaking common sense for speed. Punch, turn, punch, turn, pun–whoops, ouch. Got my right index finger. It bled a lot, but I didn’t faint, thank goodness. The worst part was explaining to Laureen why I was late. She was very understanding, but dangit, I should have known better.
The hope was to go to the doctor today (for a previously scheduled issue) and see if I needed stitches. However, any emergency with my doctor throws her schedule into complete chaos, and another appointment prevented me from seeing her. So, based on what it looks like, I think I’ll be okay. Think is the operative word there. I wish I’d thought earlier.
The food was pretty good, however.
And then you thought to ask Laureen about a few things like… Alpo explosions in the microwave and a certain experiment with Cornish hens. Anybody can cook to feed their family, but he who _bleeds_ to feed his family is all man.