Saturday, January 29, 2011

Friday (ish) Fiction: Don't Poke the Demon

I love my wife. Seriously, I do.

But if you repeat what I am about to say, I will deny it. To the grave.

My wife is possessed. The demon has a name, but if you utter it, you will only anger it. Believe me. Every time I catch myself about to call the demon out, I stop and think, Don’t poke the demon, Greg. Fire will spew from her lips, and she will gnash her teeth growling in that freaky, guttural snarl…

She wasn’t always possessed, at least to this degree. Once upon a time I would only see an annoyance flash in her eyes. Now that flash is the ten second warning. I’ve learned to duck and cover or perish where I stand.
As the years have gone by, just locking myself in the bathroom or banging around in the basement have proved to not be enough protection. If I could be seen, smelled or heard, she’d sense my presence. Many times I’ve heard her familiar growl seeping under doors I was cowering behind. “Grrreg! Are you going to take all day in there!?” I swear, when the demon appears, I get as knotted up as last year’s Christmas lights.

My epiphany came from an unexpected source. I happened to pick up and read the cover jacket on the book on my wife’s nightstand, The Red Tent by Anita Diamante. It seems that back in the Old Testament days, those women possessed by the demon were isolated to a tent of their own. Forehead smackin’ genius.

With a little help from Wikipedia, I discovered that some tribes in Africa have a specific hut for their possessed females.

Of course, this is not the days of Abraham, or the plains of Africa. If I tried to sequester her to a hovel in the yard, she would probably divorce me, if I were a lucky man. It’s more likely that she would brain me and bury me in pieces under said hovel.

What I needed was a man tent. A red hut. My very own cowering cave, completely separate from the main house.

Two problems though:

First of all, Iowa is stupid cold in the winter, and the demon knows no seasons. Coleman doesn’t make a canvas structure that can sustain me for a week in twelve inches of snow.

Second, I needed a reason—and a darn good one—to vanish for days on end. I needed a hobby, no-no, a calling, to justify my absence from the demon’s lair.

While I brainstormed the second problem, I took bold steps to rectify the first. The most important detail of the plan was to approach her while the demon was away…

One Monday morning after a long weekend of snowfall, I slid the blueprints for a two story detached garage across the breakfast table. She looked out at her car buried under eight inches of ice and snow, and then gave me a huge grin. The plan was working.

When the spring finally came we broke ground, and by midsummer, my red-brick-man-cave was almost complete. It was time to implement part two of “Operation Dodge the Demon”. I needed to pull out my secret weapon—an unsuspecting accomplice—our pastor.

It might have been the tensest Sunday morning in our history. The demon snarled me out of bed, told me I could barely dress myself and why was she surprised that I couldn’t help her dress the kids, and screamed that if I didn’t get out of the bathroom we were going to be late for church.

The only time my mouth didn’t possess a Tums was when I held the sacraments of communion in it.

When we filed out to shake the pastor’s hand, he asked how the garage was coming along. I projected my voice sideways towards the fashionable demon that flanked my right.

“I’m ready to get all my woodworking tools out of the basement and into the garage loft…”

“Really? Do you think you’ll have some time and space to devote to our More Than Carpentry ministry?”

Cha-ching. “Honey, whaddya think?” I held my breath.

She offered a taut smile, “That sounds like a real blessing. It’d be nice to get him out of the house. Some days I just can’t stand the sight of him.”

As her talons pulled me into the narthex, I glanced back to my pastor who gave me a knowing smirk and mouthed the words, “I’ll call you.”

He better.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Law and Order: PRESCHOOL Unit

Back-story: For the girls fourth birthday we gave them a big girl room. Twin sized beds and new bedding…the room is a soft pink with brown polka dots. Tis uber cute. Part of this renovation was to purge all the toys upstairs to what is now the playroom. That was a gift to me. It is wonderful to have all that crap the kid’s stuff in a specified area, out of the way, and I place I can send the kiddos to visit their crap toys, also, out of my way. Forehead smackin’ genius.

So...Reagan comes strolling downstairs and casually moseys up next to me at my computer.

Me: “Whatcha guys doing up there? Playing with your Barbies?”

Reagan: “Yes, just playing. Not cutting.”

The interrogation begins. My head whips a quarter turn to meet her eyes, tilts in a disapproving Mom manner, eyes narrowed: “Cutting? What are you cutting?”

Reagan: “Nothing.”

Me: “Did you find a pair of scissors?”

Reagan: “Nope.”

Me: “Are you lying, Reagan?”

The Little Liar: (extremely long pause) “No.”

Reagan turns and heads to the stairs. I rise and follow the lead.

Reagan: “Are you coming up to play with us, Mommy?”

Me: “No, I’m coming up to see what you’ve been cutting.”

Her eyes widen, and she double times it up the stairs. Abby is playing with the giant pink Barbie Brothel.

Reagan: “See, Mom, we’re just playing.”

Me: “Abby, were you two cutting something?”

Reagan looks at Abby, bug eyed. I swear I can see her slightly shaking her head ‘no’.

With a pointing finger, Abby turned State’s Evidence. On the floor beneath the Little Tykes table was a pile of foam nugget confetti from a purple alphabet puzzle, and two pages of a Chick-Fil-A kid’s meal book cut into perfect two inches strips. And a dainty pair of sharp pointed pink scissors. I pick them up and inspect the loveseat, curtains and carpet for damage. Then checked their hair for new, unauthorized coifs. All clear.

Me: “So, who did the cutting?”

Abby (nonchalantly pointing to the defendant’s table from the proverbial
stand): “Reagan did.”

The look on Reagan’s face confirmed the accusation. Her gaze dropped to the floor. I bit my lip, trying not to smile.

The verdict was in. Guilty.

Reagan: “Sorry, Mommy.”

The sentence was delivered.

Me: “Pick up every little piece you cut and throw them away. And you have to tell Daddy what you did.”

The Little Convict: “NOooo….he’ll be upset with me.”

Me: “Yep…”

Then I handed my prisoner over to the warden. Don’t worry—he paroled her in time for dessert. :)

Monday, January 17, 2011

What's Cooking?

It occurred to me earlier this week when I posted the following recipe on Facebook, that I should use my (terminally neglected) blog to post my favorite edible creations, great recipes I discover, as well as posting any recipes you all would like to share. After all, and despite how un-PC this sounds, everyday cooking usually falls into most Mom's to-do column.

I love cooking, but since I am an intuitive cook, I will have to strive harder to give you more precise ingredient amounts and cooking times than in the recipe below, though I will probably still use the term "ish" a lot. "Ish" means: according to your personal taste and what you have on hand:). I also will take pictures as I go along with my real camera, instead of my Forest Gump smart phone (it's not so smart, but it gets the job done).

Anyone that wants to share a recipe, give me a'll get full culinary credit.

So here is my introductory recipe...hope you like it!

Bacony Cheesy Goodness Stuffed Chicken Breasts

3-4 chicken breasts

½ cup low fat Italian Dressing

½ cup white wine (plus a little more;)

Five (ish) slices of bacon cut into fingernail (?) size bits

6-7 (ish) sliced mushrooms

Approximately 1/3 cup of sliced onion (give or take, based on preference)

3-4 tbsp Feta cheese crumbles

3-4 slices of Provolone cheese

3-4 tbsp of butter

2 (ish) cups of Panko bread crumbs

On the straighter side of the breast, carefully cut a slit about 2 ½ inches long, reaching in with the knife and making a good sized pocket. Be careful not to cut through any of the sides.

Toss the prepared chicken into a Ziploc or other container with the dressing and the wine; let them marinate in the fridge while preparing the stuffing.

(If you are as prone as I am to self inflicted clothing stains as I am, remember to put on your apron before you ruin yet another favorite shirt with bacon grease.)

In a large sauté pan (10-12 inches), fry the bacon bits for a couple minutes till they start to brown. Add the onion and sauté for a couple more till the onions start to become translucent. Add mushrooms. Stir a couple more minutes, until mushrooms start to shrink a little. Warning: the aroma at this point will starve you to death. Throw a splash of the white wine in to deglaze the pan. Go ahead and take a "test" drink straight from the bottle.

If you like the taste of the vino, add another healthy splash to the pan. Sauté a minute or two till the wine reduces. Take off the heat; spoon mixture into a bowl and set aside. Leave all the flavored fatty drippings in the pan. We’ll come back to that…

When the bacon mixture cools a tad, mix in the feta.

Preheat the oven to 350*

Remove chicken from the marinade. For each breast, take a halved provolone slice and insert in the cavity, spreading the two halves to cover the most territory. Spoon the bacon mixture in, making sure to tuck it to the corners. When all the chicken breasts are stuffed, coat them in the Panko crumbs. (If you'd like to add more fat/calories/time to the recipe, you can first coat the breasts in flour, and then run them through an egg wash before the Panko crumbs. I've found that an oil based marinade adheres the crumbs just dandy.)

Stop fooling yourself and just pour a glass of the wine.

Add the butter to the pre-flavored frying pan over med-high heat. Sauté the breasts on each side just till golden, and then transfer to a baking dish lightly sprayed with cooking spray.

Bake uncovered for 25-30 minutes.