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The Bang Bang Theories


Made a very involved supper today, to steal the descriptor of Mr. Murdoch. It wasn’t very difficult, but very much from-scratch through-and-through. Chicken with stuffing – stuffing made from scratch. No boxed stuff for us (well, only because we didn’t have any in the house). Had to get creative with bouillin cubes and croutons, and it was absolutely the best stuffing ever. Kenny and I concurred.

Also included with fab chicken dish was cooked beets (bought from the farm market last weekend), fried green tomatoes, and homemade applesauce. For dessert, homemade apple crisp. Do you detect an apple theme here? Why, yes, indeed, you’re right. Sophie gifted me with a very large bag of tart apples and they are crying out to be used. Do you hear them?? Well, they are crying, believe you me (what does that even mean??). Since we’re officially on Vacation Countdown, I had to do something with them tonight. I peeled and cored and diced and chopped ’til I’m sick of apples. Still have some left. The apple crisp is truly incredible, if I do say so myself. I like the recipes that call for oats, and I used a little less sugar, so it stayed a bit tart. But just a bit. I need to find a home for the remaining apples. I can’t imagine doing anything more with them. I’m spent.


Grand plans were in place for the weekend, with the priority being to take care of all things house-related before we go on vacation. As my faithful reader knows, I freak the fuck out before vacation and decide we need to lay hardwood floors and build additions onto the house the week before we leave for anywhere. Well, not that extreme, but the laundry must be done, shelves must be tidied, and laundry must all be put away. Even the giant blue basket of unmatched socks.

We actually made good on the majority of those plans, dividing and conquering them Saturday night. I, of course, got the shitty end of the cleaning stick, which was to be expected. I tackled the bathroom – from ceiling to floor and every grouty place in between. Scrubbed it clean, and put away a basket of stuff that was hanging out in the back bedroom since the time of the Summer Leak. I had emptied out from underneath the vanity when our humble home was at the point of being blamed for the leak, and the stuff had never made it back. Until this past weekend, that is. While I tackled the bathroom, Kenny had the audacity to complain about matching socks on the coffee table, while he watched The Devil Wears Prada. I was a sweaty disgusting mess and offered to trade him. He declined and stopped bitching about matching socks. See, we originally were just going to throw them all in the trash, but then I just couldn’t go through with the plan, regardless of the fact that we’ve already purchased new socks for vacation. I still had some favorites I didn’t want to see just get tossed aside out of sheer laziness. So now they are matched, and what didn’t have a match was pitched out.


Vacation Laundry is still in progress. Hopefully it will get handled a little bit each evening, with all packing in place without any stress or rabid cursing. Yes, sometimes I foam and drip spittle the night before vacation. With this big 14-day-er looming, I could be the most noteworthy stressout of all time.


During the cleansing of a drawer, I found a black string, much to Twinkle’s delight. When he was a baby he had a very similar black ribbon/string that he carried around the house in his little cat mouth. He slept with it, took it with him everywhere, because ya just never know when you might need to bat a string around. He was like a boy scout, always prepared. Well, now he’s got one once again, and any where Twink goes, the string goes, too. It’s really the cutest fucking thing ever. Well, probably you people with babies would disagree, but it’s the cutest CAT thing ever. He was sleeping on the coffee table with the string tucked between his paws. With string, all things are possible.

At the McDonald’s drive-thru window today, as I was picking up a soda to take with me to Sophie’s (she normally has some flat 2-liter off-label pop in her fridge), I actually said, “Thanks, Dude” to the kid who handed me my coca-cola. Really? I just blithely say “Dude” now, I guess.

Later. Dude.

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