A humorous look at the little things in life

You’re a lucky man, I tell him every day. January 13, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — ashleyolsonrosen @ 8:12 pm

Recommended wine for today’s entry: NV Evolution Lucky No. 9, Oregon White Wine. Winery Notes: “A curious blend of Pinot Gris, Riesling, Muller-Thurgau, Semillon, Gewürztraminer, Muscat Canelli, Chardonnay, Pinot Blanc and Sylvaner. The 9 grapes tie together perfectly, creating a smooth, layered white wine that can hold its own or stand up to just about any food pairing you dare to serve it with. It is extraordinarily food-friendly, from light salads to the hottest fusion-style cuisine.” This sounds like it would go well with just about anything, except maybe burned lentil soup. Appears to sell for around $18.

He’s a lucky man.

I am trying to make my husband believe that with a new subliminal technique that I’ve devised, where I get up six times in the middle of the night, mostly during his REM sleep, and lean really close to him and chant that over and over. The sixth visit, I tuck a piece of fragrant bacon inside his pillowcase and when he wakes up, he thinks — if even for a minute — that I’ve made breakfast. Over time, he’ll confuse wakefulness and half-slumber and will come to believe that he is truly a lucky man.

I really have been very domestic lately. I made dinner two nights in a row this week. This prompted the following response from my very mean daughter. I believe this is close to verbatum:

Me: Where are you going? I made dinner.

Her: What are you talking about?

Me: Uh, duh — d-i-n-n-e-r — you know, food you eat at night?

Her: What? Why? You did that yesterday. What’s going on?

Me: I always make dinner!

Her: Are you kidding me? Sometimes you make sandwiches.

She left anyway, without even asking what delicacy was available.

As you can imagine, my feelings were terribly hurt. So I had a glass of wine. After I was calmed down from our little spat, I realized that it was 8:15 and we should actually eat the dinner I had prepared. So I put the pot of lentil-barley soup that I had TOTALLY LABORED over earlier in the day (I mean, I had to open a WHOLE NEW bottle of red wine, because it called for 1/4 cup and I only had white open in the fridge.)

Not one to let anything go to waste, I put the soup on the stove and 1) gave the deer who frequently taunt my pups all the leftover vegetables that I hadn’t used in the soup; and 2) poured another glass of wine — there was too much in the fridge to drink within my 3-day limit if I didn’t get serious about this issue.

That made me hungry, so I turned the heat up to high under the soup and went to watch basketball.

It wasn’t long before I was engrossed in the game and my house smelled like the aftermath of a four-alarmer.

Yuck. This house smells weird, I said to my husband. And wow — look how much steam is coming out of the soup.

You idiot! he said, being careful not to hurt my feelings. That’s smoke!

Then I ran like a gazelle into the kitchen where I stirred the soup and large chunks of what looked like asphalt but were actually blackened lentils rose to the surface of dinner.

I poured it in the sink. I was sad, so I retrieved my wine from next to my cozy chair in front of the TV. Then we stopped the game and DVR-ed it for later while my husband opened all the windows to let in the fresh, 17-degree air. I sipped the wine while he scrubbed the bottom of the pan with a Brillo pad. I would have done it, but my vote was to throw the pot away and his was to try to save it. So naturally, he should scrub it. Besides, when I touch a Brillo pad it makes me really nauseous and it makes my teeth hurt.

So he preheated the oven for his old stand-by — Tyson’s chicken tenders — and I pulled the top off my old stand-by — Easy Mac. Then we settled down to watch more of the game. It was very cold in the house. My lips were blue and I kept sloshing my wine because I was trembling, so my husband, who HATES anything that smells — good or bad — turned on the ceiling fan.

I didn’t say anything, because it was my little faux pas that had caused the smell and even I had to admit it was bad. My eyes were watering.

As soon as the fan got to a speedy rotation, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a very sizable wad of dust launch from the end of the fan, a-r-c   s-l-o-w-l-y   t-h-r-o-u-g-h   t-h-e   a-i-r and settle perfectly into his glass of ice water.

I laughed. He opened a beer.

He’s a lucky man.


3 Responses to “You’re a lucky man, I tell him every day.”

  1. Tricia Says:

    I’m glad I’m not the only one. And you know…this whole episode is your daughter’s fault!

    I just found out that you have to clean your house more than once a year. That whole spring cleaning thing is a big farce. Who knew? I was so disappointed it was akin to learning there was no tooth fairy. I blame Martha Stewart and her tidiness. If it weren’t for her, we could clean once a year and no one would know any better.

  2. Tricia Says:

    P.S. I can’t touch Brillo either. I don’t know what it is, but that stuff is gross.

  3. ashleyolsonrosen Says:

    Uh, oh. Further confession: Just after finishing that post, I tried to make fried fish (never again), frozen French fries and some stupid onion tart. Too many things. There was an ugly incident involving the broiler and the French fries and another smoky kitchen. And the fish? … YUCK. Luckily the family didn’t see me throw mine away. They ate theirs. The cats ate mine.

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