13 December, 2007

the tale of the tofu wiener thief - or how i learned to trust my husband and mistrust the radishes

the beans had boiled. the sauce was ready. all that was missing was the package of tofu wieners i knew for a fact i had bought, paid for, packed, unpacked and put in the fridge the day before.

well aware of my tendencies and my deficiencies, mental, psychological and otherwise, i looked everywhere. in the pantry, in the freezer, in the recycling bag...the verdict was clear: mister monkey, in his early morning foraging had thoughtlessly grabbed the package of tofu wieners and was even now slurping them back one by one like some cheap porn star.

i did what i typically do - i phoned him and, frustrated at having gotten his answering machine, i hollered: did you take the wieners? you stole the wieners! how could you! you knew i was going to....click.

it didn't take long for him to phone me back. clearly his wife was insane and required swift psychiatric help: calling him at work, ranting something unintelligible about wieners and hanging up in midsentence, this was odder than the typical harangues.

through gritted teeth, i explained. he swore he didn't take the wieners. i said he did. he said he did not. i said he did. he said he did not. clearly, an impasse. could our marriage take it? he suggested they must have crawled out, snake-like, in the car, and were even now growing a furry mold under the back seat cushions.

i had to bite the bullet and drag my aching carcass down to the parkade and root in the less-than-immaculate back seat to find the errant wieners. in my desperation (i prefer the comfort of the couch with its elegant pile of used tissues and orange peel to the dark uncertainty of a wiener hunt) i decided to check in the fridge one last time.

nothing.

then, a hunch. i lifted the plastic container filled with mister monkey's snack radishes and there it was: the lost package of wieners, grinning, i swear it, puckishly at me.

we ate the fuckers anyway.

america's next top proctologist! tonight on NBC!

things to ponder while boiling beans:

north america has become so patently retarded when it comes to homemaking that people at work are impressed when someone brings any homemade goodies like marshmallows wrapped in peanut butter and coconut flakes. say what? rolling marshmallows in stuff is not "baking" nor does it make someone a good baker, as a co-worker declared in wonder. yes. hours spent rolling marshmallows in stuff. martha stewart, watch out.  jesus! does nobody teach their children how to cook or bake anymore?

people are genuinely impressed when you bring homemade soup to work. soup. you know: chopped up stuff in water. très difficile!

i am sick, i am cranky, i am eating large numbers of mandarin oranges and watching the snow pile up outside.

it's odd, but after the initial shock of landing in a snowy edmonton after returning from our fantabulistic holiday in new orleans, i am actually enjoying the snow. not the driving part, mind you, but on an esthetic level, a snowy winter is one of the loveliest things out there.

we went to edmonton last weekend, despite my reservations (both of us were sick and the roads were icy), because mister monkey really wanted to attend his christmas party. i was scheduled to get fitted with a holter heart monitor this weekend (those pesky heart palpitations that signal my impending death) and you can imagine how thrilled i was to be told that not only would i have to wear a dashing and oh-so-stylish maroon fannypack all weekend, but i could neither shower nor bathe until monday. sadly for me, they were all out of the festive sequined fannypacks, and i was forced to look like a tacky 80's tourist. still, we ended up at a table with a man in a wrangler shirt (you knew it was a wrangler shirt because along both sleeves it said WRANGLER. also, on the back, it had a subtle 3" high embroidery that said WRANGLER. so you could kinda figure it out) and his wife who sported very sexy jesus bangs. they probably thought my fannypack was stylin'.

the wine was australian and good (a welcome change from last year's italian fiasco) but the food was either cold or dried along the edges or just plain plain. as phil said, no matter how good your kitchen, when you're cooking for 200 people, the quality simply bows down to quantity.

and now? well, i'm cooking beans, reading p.d. james (who really needs to switch her characters up a bit: can all english people be so bloody dour and brought up by at best unloving and at worst psychopathic parents?), drinking tea, blogging. perhaps i shall get into the swing of things again, or perhaps i won't.