...on myself. Even though there was no witness to foolish behavior, I am willing to share. It appears I am easier to amuse as I age, plus there is a complicating or possibly alleviating factor. Over the years, I find things that would have been horrifyingly embarrassing now are closer to the laughable end of the scale rather than mortifying. There is a snippet of video (now transferred to a disc and available for viewing the spectacle) of an early example of tragic humiliation when a youngster dropped a plate of cookies. Leaving me abashed and flabbergasted, making a hasty retreat across the back yard.
That is not the same 'me' as the one today. I am: so what? who cares? get over it! move on with life!
The story starts with filching a container of vegetable soup from the left overs at the retreat center last Sunday. I had asked, politely putting in my request, offering to bring my container to take some some food that would have otherwise gone to the nearby men's shelter as a donation. Remembering to take the plastic bowl and lid, I gave it to the team manager, and she filled with yummy soup. I hoped to make a couple of meals out of it, to feed The Man Who Lives Here, with a quick easy meal. Good plan, right?
But when I got home after four long days of donating my time, and flopped down exhausted on Sunday afternoon, he was eating a bowl of ice cream with peanut butter on it. Which is nearly a balanced meal if you stand far enough away, close one eye and squint with the other.. Protein, milk, etc., etc. At that point, I saw no reason to offer to prepare him anything even remotely similar to nutritious.
On Monday, when he asked 'do we have any supper plans?', I responded: 'soup and a sandwich.' Thinking I could throw a cheese sandwich in the skillet and heat up a bowl of hearty, yummy, healthy vegetable soup. He asked for tomato soup, made with whole milk. My response was 'that might not be one of your choices.' I got up from sitting right here and went in the kitchen to poke around in the pantry and did find a can of Campbell's Tomato. And put it in a sauce pan with milk to heat.
Here is where the laughable part starts: I got a couple of slices of bread, added mayonnaise on both and slices of cheese. Put a pat of butter in the skillet to melt, then laid his sandwich in the pan. Picked up the Time magazine and started reading. Flipped the sandwich over to let it brown on the other side, and get the cheese to melt, creating luscious gooey-ness. I proceeded to get involved in the magazine, thereby letting the bread char instead of toasting in the pan. Oh, s#*t.
When I realized the sandwich was now inedible, I picked up the skillet and walked out of the house. No, I did not run away from home. I just parked the skillet with carbonized bread on the metal chair on the screened porch, and went back in to start over. With a fresh sandwich and clean skillet. Rest assured I did not own up to the minor cooking disaster. Actually, I am of the opinion: If no one knows about it, it didn't happen!
Later, went out in the backyard and tossed the charred sandwich out for recycling. The same place I will occasionally deposit the odd bit of over-ripe fruit or vegetables that are so far past their prime as to be deadly if consumed. Brought the skillet back inside and, after a good scrub, it is back in service.
The Man got fed, the little things in the woods had a nice surprise when they found that well-done sandwich, my skillet survived. Happy ending.
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