Did someone say fried chicken?
Today is strawberry sundae day! Let’s have one now while I muse about Wednesday’s fried chicken day and hopefully amuse a bit.
We started the day by making homemade lemonade, which would pair perfectly with our fried chicken. Yesterday was fried chicken day. Homemade lemonade is never worth the effort until you pour your first glass. Cole made the lemonade, and I helped!
(we own several big spoons but we can never find them…Odd)
Actually, I mostly cleaned up while pretending I had poured out his two cups of fresh lemon juice and lemon peels. If you can’t torture your kids, then what’s the point of having them?
After I had poured my first glass of lemonade, I had a thought: This lemonade is so good, we need brownies to go with it. So I made a pan of brownies, but forgot to add water to the recipe. Well, I did add two out of three ingredients, which isn’t bad for me; however, the brownies suffered and were hard as a rock. Next time I will add water.
The kitchen was cleaned up, and I sat down to read a good book. Okay, fine, I sat down and visited on Facebook, but I considered reading The Help, which I have started and am enjoying. When a friend of mine questioned her very Southern mama about the book, she responded, “Well, honey, that is just the way it was back then.” I’m sure you are already reading this book or know about it since I am woefully behind on my reading list, but if you haven’t, you might want to check it out—or do we say Kindle it or Nook it these days?
While I was enjoying my Facebook time, a comment popped up on Odd. A woman was very upset with me. It seems I had totally screwed up her menu planning—she planned hamburgers on fried chicken day. I thought she was kidding, but it quickly became clear she was not. Lots of people receive comments on their blog that disagree with their content or viewpoint. Not me. I get comments blasting me for channeling Joe without the proper credentials, leaving a comment with a misspelled word or missing comma, or not giving people enough notice to plan their menus for the food of the day. I replied that the food of the day had a preparation window of one week, and I suggested that perhaps she could save hamburgers for Thursday night, adding that the hamburgers would go well with today’s strawberry sundaes, but she was not consoled.
Ms. OCD insisted that I should give everyone 48 hours’ notice of the food of the day. Sheesh! I usually don’t know an hour before we eat what will turn up on our plates. My mom, however, makes a list every Monday before she goes to the store—Monday: meatloaf; Tuesday: stroganoff; Wednesday: ham spam and spider ghouley. I should have let my mom answer this poster’s comment; she would have been more empathetic.
I am working on a disclaimer for Odd—something like: “Nothing on Odd is copyrighted. If you want it, take it. If you want to credit me for it, thank you. But under no circumstance am I responsible for your meal planning or for providing advance meal-planning notice. Forgive me for not making this clear earlier on El Morno.” My disclaimer is still being tweaked; feel free to make suggestions.
Our dinner of fried chicken, slaw, biscuits, and fresh lemonade was delightful. A Popeye’s coupon for the eight-piece deal made meal preparation a snap.
Dinner was done. I poured myself a nice glass of lemonade and went into the living room to settle into the big comfy chair to read my book. As I was leaving the kitchen with my lemonade, Cole was entering the kitchen to pour himself a glass. I put mine on the table just as Scooby (the beagle) knocked into it, spilling the entire glass of lemonade. Just as I caught the glass, I heard Cole say, “OH, NO!” The top of the pitcher had come off and most of the lemonade spilled into my purse, which was sitting on a stool—of course Cole was not pouring it over the sink, or even close to the sink. They NEVER POUR OVER THE SINK. EVER.
Ya know, you would think after the latest court verdict, kids everywhere would be a little more careful.
Cole grabbed towels and a mop. I grabbed my purse and dumped the contents into a big bowl, wiped down two checks, and tried to resuscitate my favorite lipstick but had to concede that it had bitten the dust. RIP, Skinny Dip. I debated putting my purse in the dishwasher, but that was filled with dishes, so I tossed my purse in the washer, gentle cycle, cold water—there was no way to just wipe it down. MY PURSE LIVED. I put my wallet and all of my credit cards into the top rack of the dishwasher (there was just enough room). I took everything out before the dry cycle—good as new. My tile floor will never be the same. I feel like a tar baby when I walk across it in my Keens. I am worried the ants will march two by two and carry off all the tiles before I have managed to get rid of the stickiness.
As Cole poured the remaining lemonade into his glass—under my watchful eye and over the sink—he said, “Mom, sometimes when life hands you lemons, you have to make lemonade.”
If you are on my jury you won’t convict me, right?
Leave me a comment if you have a chance. Odd Loves Company and so does misery!