Something happened last night which, in the six years I have known my husband, has only happened once before.
I prepared a meal that was inedible.
I made orange beef with broccoli over steamed rice. How, you are thinking, could that be bad? While I am buoyed by your confidence in my abilities, I must tell you that it was one of those times when Viva insisted on being in the kitchen with me. There is nothing cuter than an eager little munchkin who is bound and determined to help out. She helped make the rice – i.e. measured dry rice and water and poured them into the pot – and then helped mix the orange juice and soy sauce with ginger and garlic. When the meat and veggies went into the pan and there was nothing else she could do, she insisted on washing dishes, and this is where I think it all went wrong. I was simultaneously trying to make sure she didn’t burn herself with hot water or drop glasses/dishes and trying to keep an eye on the stir-fry. I also made the mistake of using a different recipe, which I promptly threw into the trash after dinner. Yes, that is how pissed off I was – I didn’t even try to recycle the piece of paper it was written on. I threw it away.
At any rate, the broccoli turned all mushy, and the sauce was gelatinous and way too orangey-tasting. The rice was good. We all had rice, picked the pieces of overly-orangey beef out of the mushy broccoli and then gave up and ate cereal.
Tonight I will be attempting to make turkey fajitas. Despite the fiasco of last night, I am confident that my track record (two losses! In six years!) will win out.
The More You Explain It, The More I Don't Understand It
Over the holidays, my Best Friend Forever, who I have known since we were 12, sent me a card. I know this because I came out of the shower and found Viva holding a photo of two grinning boys. “Oh,” I squealed, “Is that from Best Friend Forever?”
“Who?” said Sweet Dub. “I don’t know who it’s from.”
“It’s Best Friend Forever!” I said, crossly. “Ooh, it has a Post-It on it: Now that we are closer to you, call me and let’s get together: [telephone number redacted, but not really]! Oh my God, did she move? Where’s the envelope?”
“Um, I don’t know,” said Sweet Dub.
“You LOST IT?!” I shrieked.
“I didn’t lose it, I just don’t know what I did with it,” he said.
He lost it. But he told me the envelope had a return address in Santa Barbara. This was pretty incredible to me, since we are both from Boston and she has remained there while I have been here for lo, what is it, 12 years? We do not speak to each other or even e-mail each other very often, because we are both caught up in our lives and all that. But we are still Best Friends. I was maid of honor at her wedding, for God’s sake. I wanted to call her, but I wanted to make sure I’d have time to talk. (Yeah, right. When do I ever?)
What with one thing and another, I didn’t get around to calling her right away. It was the holidays, and then we were sick, blah blah blah bling bling blah. So the other day, I went looking for her number. The photo was there, but the Post-It was gone.
Are you kidding me?
I e-mailed her at the last known e-mail address I had. No response. So yesterday, I went with the tried and true: I called on the Internet Faeries. Not only did I find her, I found her old address, new address, and how much she and her husband got for their house when they sold it in July.
Those Internet Faeries are a little creepy.
Stay tuned for the next chapter, when I actually write to her and maybe get her to call me if she isn’t completely disgusted by how easily my husband and I lose things! I know! It’s a gripping, emotionally overwrought saga for the ages!