Why I Should Never Be Allowed in the Kitchen

We have a small tradition with our neighbors, wherein we get together once a week to have dinner and watch American Idol. Now, I don’t really love that show, but I do love the company. We take turns hosting, and it’s an unspoken part of the tradition that you are supposed to cook something new. That gets tricky quickly, when your entire culinary range is four meals.

But I found a great recipe for a round meal… (wagon wheel pasta, sausage cut into circles, and zucchini, again, cut into circles. Plus butter and oil. Mmmm.) Any meal that is defined by its geometric shape is A-O.K. in my book! And I even thought I was prepared well in advance, because I brought the ingredient list to the store with me last weekend, to get ready. Oh, I am so prepared.

And well I might be, because this week has been insanely busy, so far.

Alas, we know how the universe thinks it’s funny when I act all “ready” and “prepared.”

On my way in to work yesterday, I was like, Yes, there will be an excellent pasta dish. But there is nothing to eat it off of, for the dishwasher has not been run. And there will be absolutely nothing else to eat, because our pantry is bare bare bare. So I called The Funasaurus and said, “Darling, could you maybe pick up some salad, and some of those Pillsbury yummy yummy croissant dinner roll things?” (Except I think I didn’t say “darling” or “maybe.”)

And he said, “Yes, darling,” (again, “Darling” has been added for effect, here) “but I have a meeting that will run until 6:30 or so, so I won’t be home until after 7. You know, the time dinner is supposed to start?”

So I said, “Fuck,” and made plans to run to the store before the guests arrive.

Of course it snowed all day, yesterday, so I froze to death, and then also had to drive home on the highway with a bunch of assholes who don’t know how to drive in the snow. I think they’re mostly from Texas.

So I got to the store, grabbed salad, dinner rolls, and also maybe some Klondike Bars (who knew, there is a junk food blog!) because whoo-boy, I was already turning into that kind of night.

I raced home, and began unloading the clean dishes from the dishwasher. Those included 14 very nice, grown-up wine glasses (as opposed to my not-quite-grown-up-yet-red-plastic-cup. Hey, don’t judge, they don’t break in the Jacuzzi, man.) that my parents had lent us for a party we hosted last week. I lined them up on the counter by the fridge, because that is the only part of the counter we don’t use for cooking.

Dinner was underway when The Funasaurus showed up and I threw a mop at him, all, “CLEAN!” Also, “Hi Baby, how was your day?”

The neighbors showed up, we poured them wine, and American Idol turned out not to be on until 8:00, which was great, because that’s about when it was looking like dinner would be ready.

Until.

Sugar, who had been, until this time, perched on top of the refrigerator, disdainfully watching the proceedings, decided she needed to get down.

Do you remember what was stacked on the counter next to the refrigerator, you careful reader, you?

Yes.

14 of ‘em.

And 14 long-stemmed glasses do not catch a kitty any better than one does.

There was a lot of breaking glasses and freaked out kitties, and nice neighbors who looked like they’d rather be anywhere than in our house.

“Oh no!” said our neighbors.

“Oh, hah hah, no worries. Fortunately, they’re not ours,” I laughed, trying to act like I wasn’t surrounded by a sea of glass shards.

“No, I mean, do you think Sugar’s hurt?” asked our neighbor.

“Oh, no, I’m sure she’s fine, she’s just a little spooked,” I said, feeling guilty that the thought had not really crossed my mind, at that point.

Then Sugar, with her tail all-a-puffed and crazy-eyed, began darting all over my off-white furniture with her bloody paws.

I grabbed the kitchen towel, scooped her up, and deposited her in the bathroom. I stayed in there with her, trying to tourniquet her paw, which she was having none of, and oh fuck that! And I sat there, deciding whether to cry, strangle her, or just have The Funasaurus bring me my wine glass so I could quickly drink myself into oblivion.

Fortunately, it turned out to be not a very big cut at all, and once I was fairly sure that there was no glass lodged in Sugar’s little paw, I came back out, headed straight for my wine glass, and we got dinner out with relative peace.

Until Tatum went for my Klondike Bar when I wasn’t looking. We’re serving kitty stew for dinner, next week.