I know that I would be suspicious if some blogger continually talked about how she messes up her cooking. I mean, after a while, come on.
But here is yet another true story in the unfortunate saga. The chapter is called, "The Potato Soup Debacle of '08."
Background info: All day, I've been fighting the first head cold I've for months and months. I did not have one this winter when everyone around me seemed to have pleurisy. I escaped it all.
But it's spring, and this weekend is supposed to finally hit 60*, so therefore, my body said, in it's best Janet Reno voice, "Warm? Spring? OK ... Sinuses, everyone hates sunny weekends! You must fight valiantly! Unleash the mucous!"
I carried on best as I could today, but ironically, this was my day to start eliminating gluten from my diet so that I could see if my symptoms would ease up.
So I was obsessing all day over what food I could and could not have, although I wasn't all that hungry because I felt like I was flying at 100,000 feet. When you're that clogged, you kind of live in your own little bubble and hope no one tries to carry on a conversation. The trouble is, people talk to me at work, as much as I discourage it. Unvbelievably, virtually no one respects my WKRP Les Nessman invisible door.
So then I came home and decided to fix potato soup because it's something my family will eat and has no gluten. So I peeled the potatoes even though I was barely alive and had to have a 15 minute nap between each potato. Then I boiled them and added all the good stuff. When it came time to smash 'em up, I got out my little hand mixer and smooshed away, which is a technical cooking term.
I put the pot back on the burner and added milk and butter. So far, so good. I tasted two or three times. Not bad.
Turning back to the mixer, I was horrified to see tiny ants coming OUT OF THE MIXER. Oh, I thought I would die.
I whipped around and looked into the soup I had just eaten from, and an ant had floated to the top. GAG, GAG, GAG. (No, the ant was not gagging; I was, Smarty.)
I promptly dumped the whole pot down the sink, and called my husband to yell at him.
Being the understanding, smart and slightly scared of me guy that he is, he said he would bring me a Dairy Queen Blizzard to make the bad boogey ants go away.
I don't think DQ Blizzards are gluten-free. I don't frickin' care. And I don't use that pseudo-expletive lightly, just ask my kids.
I'll try it again another day. Because I just want to eat my Blizzard and watch the new episode of What Not to Wear tonight. Because this is a night for gluten and Clinton therapy.