Piece of advice: If you ever need a recipe quick-like, write a post about your son bringing two friends home from college and and plead for help in feeding them a respectable meal. Your bloggy friends will not let you down; I know whereof I speak. Thank you all for not wanting to see me fall victim to myself once again. Although this was not a contest, I shall announce which one I chose after I see if I ruin it or not. I did select one from the comments, but it's important that you know that I love you all equally. You're all my favorites. Paula loves you, too.
When I found out Jordan was bringing his friends home, I was at work. He called to see if it would be OK to bring them. Apparently, they are running out of meals on their meal plans which their parents bought in the fall. Imagine that--college boys eating up their food points early. Anyway, he sounded so happy, and I am thanking God that he has come to love school. Well, at least love being there with friends.
So the thing I hate to do, cook, has suddenly become a labor of love. That's the thing about mothering, it's all one big labor of love, from the time you notice you've gone to the bathroom 20 times in one day when you're first pregnant to the day you unpack them at college. Did I mention I know whereof speak here, as well?
So at work, I began to think, "What will I make?" But I also began to think, "We have, like three plates and three glasses left. There are hard water spots on the silverware. Nothing is clean. The lawn needs to be mowed. I'll have to go to the grocery. Wowsers. This is sounding more and more fun."
So after work, I picked up some dishes on sale at Kohls. Then I went to get Kristin at school. When we got home, I loaded the new dishes into the washer, and put the old glasses into a sink filled with a soap scum remover cleaner (hard water). After I de-scummed them, I gingerly put a few glasses into the dishwasher and promptly broke one. Nice move. ("That does it. I'm buying some glasses.")
Did I mention I also picked up a micro-suede cover for our 20 year-old La-Z-Boy? I've had a Sure-fit cover on it for several years now, and it looked terrible. Obviously, I couldn't have Jordan's friends sitting on that health hazard. The new cover is brown. I don't know if you have had any experience with slip covers, but I have, and it's never pretty, literally or figuratively. I tugged and pulled and stuffed and grunted and actually worked up a sweat trying to make it fit. Kristin was supposed to be doing her homework, but occasionally, I'd look up from my wrestling match and see her looking at me with the same expression as if she were watching "A Very Special What Not to Wear: Fashioning Outfits Out of Pork Products and Legos."
I took Kristin to dance class, and then I went and picked up some placemats because I'd been needing them anyway, and now is as good a time as any to snatch them up, right? I certainly wouldn't buy pretty placemats simply for college boys' sakes!
I brought Kristin home and left for groceries, but before I could leave, I had to clean out the fridge. As you can see, Jorge's father is STILL baking several thousand loaves a week. I told my girlfriends that if my father-in-law had been an apostle, Jesus could've fed 500,000,000, no problem at all. Anyway, Zoe was underfoot, so I gave her a little piece of chicken to gnosh on while I continued to clear it out, and all of a sudden, I heard her going, "Haaaack. Haaaaack. I'm dyyyyying." I realized I had given her buffalo chicken, which is a tad bit "tangier" than kibbles and bits.
That is when I noticed blood on my kitchen floor.
No, it wasn't Zoe's blood. It was mine because I cut my hand somehow clearing out the shelves.
So I stopped my refrigerator chore and went for a Band-aid, but all I could find were huge ones. In fact, the size I found is only good for an injury incurred should someone jump 8 feet up into a whirling ceiling fan and slice her neck. Then she would need what I found in my medicine cabinet. I just stood there, not knowing what to do.
That is when, in lieu of a Band-aid, I applied five or six slightly burned pizza rolls to my tastebuds because that seemed sensible. After all, snacking gave me time to think about what to do next.
So I wrapped my finger toilet paper and went to Walmart, because somehow, that seemed appropriate.
I got the goods, came home and began to make the Ken Lee cake. But, as if I weren't under enough stress, Jorge was insisting that I listen to the Tivo'd Neil Diamond singing his song about faith. Jorge was very impressed by this apparent testimony to Christianity and even more adamant that I stop right then and there and appreciate Neil, but I was no mood for Neil. (See previous post on bias against Neil. Sorry.) And yet, Neil was blaring away while I was trying to bake Ken Lee for Jordan and said college friends.
Did I mention I'm PMSing?
So that's how I took two steps forward and fifteen back into bloodied, expensive, soap scum-removing, dog-endangering, furniture re-upholstering, Neil Diamond torturing, bane of my existence cooking moments. All for my boy.
Do you think he'll notice the dandelions?