Cooking with my Father

It is always and interesting thing to cook with a bachelor, especially if their cooking skills are somewhat limited, by lack of kitchen equipment, imagination, and food. 

This is what happens when a bachelor owns only 1 pot and it is being used for the spaghetti sauce. What about the spaghetti noodles? You either have to cook in shifts and rely on the microwave to reheat or you get creative and boil water in a frying pan. The trick with this is that you have to wait for the center of the noodles to get soft before you can bend them and cook the edges. It makes for an interesting texture. 

Now this is how a man cooks meat. First of all, there is a LOT of it, an entire slab, all red and meaty looking, that could only fit the long way in his sink. It was left there for one day to thaw (I mean, just look at it. It needed the entire day) Then it was put in a crock pot (which is another great invention for the busy bachelor and his slabs of meat) with whole onions and the two carrots we found in the fridge. Mind you, there was only two of us eating, but my dad looked at it and thought, "Yeah, that ought to be enough." 

This is my dad's pot. It is currently sitting in my ladle. As you can imagine, this is a bit problematic. He was once trying to cook something in it (which is difficult if there is more than 1 cup of liquid) and I called it his "pathetic excuse for a pot." He shook his head and said, "No, it's a cute pot." Yes, indeed. So cute that it can fit inside my ladle. 

My Oh-So-Fabulous Gift to My Mother

This mother's day I tried to get my mom something she could use, and since she is quite a chef, I thought something that went in the kitchen would be a good idea. I found this: 

That is correct, ladies and gentlemen. That is a ladle. I repeat: a LADLE. Let us please notice that it takes two hands to hold, could easily ladle up my head, greasy hair and all. 

It also works double for a helmet, if any emergency should arise. They didn't include this on the box, but they should have. "In case of emergency remove ladle from drawer or wall and place over head. Seek safety." 

Some may think this is an odd, exuberant, or excessively useless gift, but I saw it and immediately said, "YES" My dad also thought it was a great success, and if nothing else it would make a very original planter. 

Start of My Summer

So I have moved in with my father for the summer. There are definitely nice things about it, such as the quiet, calm, and nobody in my business. There are also some annoyances, like the fact that he doesn't own a proper pot, or the complete lack of chocolate in his house (which, up until this point, I did not think possible for any human). But I'm settling in, and I think it will be good. 

...

Except for one minor condition concerning the mice. My dad lives on a mini farm in the middle of a very rural area, so mice are quite naturally plentiful. And as his cat died, the mice have been becoming bolder. I don't mean to scare you with the idea that I'm living in a house riddled with rodents, where there is a fear to step on the floor or open drawers, because that is simply not the case. But I have seen two skitter across the floor in broad daylight, one was while I was unpacking, the other while my dad and I were having a conversation. "Mouse!" I cried and pointed. He turned and looked. "Oh." He said nonchalantly, then resumed the conversation. I mean really, what was he going to do? You can get a mouse cornered with little difficulty, but then you just stare each other down until he either wins you over with his frightened, beady little eyes, quivering whiskers, and pink nose, or he finds a hole. 

But today I heard some rustling near the garbage can. So (quite unnaturally for the normal human being) I checked it out. No little ball of fur came running out, so I assumed gravity was working on the trash. Later my dad came home, and I heard some rustling again, and again (still unnaturally) checked it out. "Do you hear a mouse?" Dad asked. "I thought so." I replied. He came over to take a look and said, "Sometimes they get caught in the garbage and you can hear them moving around." I looked at him. "And then do they stay there until you throw them out?" He shook his head. "They jump out at your face and scare you." But he said it with such factual calm that I simply replied, "Oh." I only realized the idiocy while he was walking away. Wait, why aren't we freaking out about this and dumping rat poison over every walkable surface? Who cares if cats turn my eyes into swollen, dripping, pink globules, or make me sneeze the whole alphabet in one go? Let's get our rears over the the shelter and bring the whole load back now! 

I think I should note, just for the sake of clarity, that his last cat died of a protruding brain tumor. And today one of Dad's horses (affectionately named Broohah) tried to eat my shoe--while my foot was still in it. I think this will be a very interesting summer indeed, especially if I end up sleeping outside in the car where no mouse can enter.