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* My husband offered to make me a grape soda float the other day. I thought he wasn’t serious. He claimed he was. I still didn’t believe him. (Experience has taught me not to believe most of what he says, especially when he claims to be telling the truth.) Then he made himself a grape soda float. He made one for Elvis, too. Some of it splashed on my hand and I licked it off. It tasted like vanilla ice cream topped with Children’s Tylenol. WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS??? WHY???
* If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, wonder no longer. Where I’m going is nowhere, fast.
* I can’t seem to let go of this fantasy I have about everyone I know leaving me the hell alone for a week.
* My three-year-old hasn’t had a proper bowel movement in at least three weeks. That was when I started keeping track. I’m afraid the real figure is something more like six weeks. Time flies, etc. We’ve given her laxatives and suppositories. It’s an ongoing problem, so before you tell me to take her to the doctor, let me assure you that she’s been taken, many times. She even had an x-ray once to inform us that she was indeed chock full o’ crap, just as we suspected, and we ought to give her more laxatives. Her pediatrician said, “I know. I consulted the G/E people, and that’s what they said. Just keep stepping up the laxatives until something gives. [shrugs]“ This is modern science, kids. But what we have here is not merely a failure to poop; it is actually a refusal to poop. It’s a triumph of the will. Don’t worry. I’m all done talking about it. For now.
* Three things that shouldn’t last three hours but often do:
1) Movies
2) Church services
3) Children’s birthday parties
* I’ve already been informed that I need a vacation. I’m just going to step up the laxatives until something gives.
* I have a ton of dirty clothes to wash. (By “ton,” I actually mean more like 700 pounds. Not an actual ton.) I haven’t been able to wash the dirty clothes because I’ve had more pressing laundry issues, like the ton of dirty towels that keep piling up on a seemingly-hourly basis. (In this case “ton” is an actual ton because of the water weight that dirty towels have.) Is it wrong that I should make wet, dirty towels a priority over (relatively) dry, dirty clothes? It will be when the underwear runs out. Which is why I have to go do laundry now. I actually should have been doing it all morning, but I was too busy making breakfast and mixing impotent laxative cocktails.
* Someday I’ll write a real blog again, but I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.
I wonder if olive oil mayonnaise really is an adequate condiment, or if I’m like one of those people in The Sixth Sense who don’t know yet that they’re dead.
It’s one thing when you grab a regular old Take 5 bar–actually, it’s two things: two crunchy pretzels covered in chocolate-caramel-peanut-buttery goodness–you eat them both and you’re done. End of story. Now, with the advent of the Big Bag o’ Snack-size Take 5 bars, there is no moral justification for having more than one. More importantly, there’s no good reason to stop at two. There’s, like, 35 Take 5’s in this bag. Fortunately, I only bought one package. Will I be kicking myself later that I didn’t clear out the whole shelf? Yes. But after that, I will thank me.
Sugar Daddy: I thought we could try this recipe, “Martin Sheen’s Favorite Cheesecake.” It’s got pumpkin in it.
Madhousewife: Oooooooh. That sounds delicious. But I don’t know if I want one of those darn liberal cheesecakes.
SD: Right. Up his. Hey–Pumpkin Creme Brulee Tart!
Mad: Righteous!
Because of course only a Republican would make something with seven eggs.
Actually, I have no ideological beef, so to speak, with any cheesecake. All cheesecakes are equally precious in my sight (except for that Jell-o stuff that you get out of a box–it’s going to hell). I suppose I might trust Martin Sheen’s cheesecake recipe over, say, Bruce Willis’s, because everyone knows liberal men can cook, right? Kelsey Grammer, though, he might have some good desserts up his sleeve, too. And if the Rock ever came out with a cookbook, well, you can probably guess I’d be the first in line to buy one.
I prefer glazed doughnuts to powdered, raspberry-filled to lemon-filled, which put me in a dilemma at the Safeway bakery counter this morning. They had lemon-filled glazed doughnuts and raspberry-filled powdered doughnuts, but no raspberry-filled glazed doughnuts, which was unfortunate because that was what I really wanted, and neither doughnut that was available was going to satisfy me. So what to do, what to do–satisfy the raspberry craving and put up with the powder, satisfy the glazed craving and put up with the lemon, or just forget the whole thing because doughnuts are bad for me anyway? Ha ha, that last part was a joke. Hee hee hee–sigh. Funny one, though. Anyway, if you don't know how this story ends, you don't know me. Suffice it to say, I can put up with just about anything as long as it's a doughnut. Except sprinkles. I really don't like sprinkles. They're kind of obnoxious.
Speaking of doughnuts, I've been thinking about that one restaurant that makes a hamburger served between two Krispy Kremes. The reason that whole thing bothers me so much is not just that the thought of mixing ground beef with doughnuts thoroughly nauseates me, but that it's just so gratuitous. I mean, really. Something like that could only be consumed for the sake of sin itself. It can't be a pleasurable experience. Just another disgusting example of the moral depravity of our culture. But I digress.
So whilst I was in the checkout line I checked out some of the tabloids because that's what I do, and I was thinking that Lindsay Lohan looked a lot better when she still had her "baby fat." Judging from the before and after pictures of Nicole Richie, whom I never have occasion to see except when the Star tells me how concerned I should be about her weight, she looked a lot better with twenty more pounds on her, too. Now I'm not saying these girls are anorexic or they must have gone on some dangerous diet because I don't know them and, well, I'm just not that personally invested in their health or their careers. I just think they were more attractive with meat on their bones. I don't say that to be all PC or start getting down on the patriarchy–I tend to think most men prefer women with breasts, even if they have to take a little stomach with them–it's just an aesthetic thing. If Lindsay Lohan's just dropping weight for no reason in particular, I'd advise her to go on a strict diet of foods high in carbs and fat because she's such a pretty girl and it's really a shame that she's let herself go like that.
I should take her shopping at the bakery counter at Safeway. Show her how it's done.
Up until I was about 21 years old, I thought being underweight would be a terrific problem to have. Not to mention something straight out of sci-fi, as far as my thighs were concerned. Then I dropped a dress size and I just didn't think about my weight again until about ten years later, soon after I'd weaned Mister Bubby after seventeen months of breastfeeding and realized that I weighed about ten pounds less than I ever had in my adult (or teenage) life and that I looked like hell. I thought my thyroid must be out of whack because nothing I ate made much difference, but my thyroid was fine, and then I got pregnant and gained weight sufficient for everyone's needs, and I haven't given my weight much thought since then. Could I stand to lose a few–if, you know, I wasn't currently pregnant again? Eh, I don't really know. I've seen prettier thighs in my day (not usually on me, of course). But I do have a vivid memory of stepping out of the shower one morning and seeing this gaunt figure in the mirror and being somewhat horrified and grossed out. I look a heck of a lot better now than I did then, and I did it all without exercising. I should be Lindsay Lohan's next personal trainer.
Note to self: Burger King is not food. Just because it tastes better than McDonald's doesn't mean that it tastes good. Don't kid yourself–the worst part is the fries. What is up with those fries? You keep eating them, thinking that anything deep-fried can't be that bad, but no–they are that bad. Even McDonald's has better fries. Which doesn't mean you can eat at McDonald's! Defile your children's tastebuds if you must, but don't do this to yourself again. Did I say that Sugar Daddy was in
Austin this week? I was just kidding. He's in
Arizona. No, I don't get the two mixed up. He just spent the last two weeks before he left talking about steak and how he was going to eat some on his business trip, and so I naturally thought
Texas, not
Arizona, even though I knew
Arizona was his destination. See how the mind plays tricks on you? I mean, me.
Anyway, he's been in
Arizona and he's eaten all kinds of decadent food on his expense account. I know because he phones in his dinner report every night. You might think this insensitive, like I did initially, but then I realized that it was just natural for him to do because I always ask him what he eats when he goes out for lunch on business. I don't know why I do that. I think I can live vicariously through his tastebuds, somehow, even though that's obviously ludicrous.
I might have found it more irritating this time because it's been a really long week filled with really bad food choices in the Madhousehold. It started Sunday evening, after SD left for the airport. I hate to cook any day of the year, but I really hate hate hate to cook when SD's not around to justify the effort involved. I mean, kids will eat anything–or nothing. Whichever. The point is, it doesn't matter what you feed them, as long as it isn't poisonous (no Burger King cracks, please), so why bother with anything fancy, i.e. good?
So yes, it started Sunday evening, it being the Sabbath and I unable to order a pizza therefore. I realized that I had inadequate groceries in the house to prepare anything I would want to eat. So I prepared something I really didn't want to eat. You know how when you have no money for food and you end up eating a lot of the same stuff because it's cheap, and it tastes okay for a while but eventually you realize that if you eat this crap one more time you're going to vomit? When SD and I were first married, and through the first half of graduate school, we made a dish we euphimistically referred to as Lentil Thing. Hopefully none of you is eating lunch right now because I'm about the share the recipe. It's lentils, brown rice, carrots, and green onions cooked in chicken broth, with cheese melted on top. Yeah, I know, I had you all until that last part, but trust me–it really did taste quite fine, the first hundred times we ate it. Moreover, every kid I've ever served it to has loved it (and I'm not just talking about the freaky ones I gave birth to). However, one night SD and I looked at each other and said, "This dish has lost its savour." Well, not in so many words. But you get the picture. Out went Lentil Thing, never to return again. Until last Sunday evening, when I realized I had all the ingredients to make it, and it was so easy, and I didn't have to eat it myself, after all. Well. I did end up eating it because despite how it might taste to me now, it does have important nutrients in it and when I remember that I'm pregnant, I like to eat nutrients. I like the idea of it, anyway.
Speaking of lentils, this is a bit of a tangent, but as long as we're having True Culinary Confessions here, I actually used to make a dish called Sweet & Sour Lentils. No, really. I got it out of the Vegetarian Times Cookbook. Which ought to tell you a number of things. Well, one thing anyway. I made it because it was cheap and easy–not often, but occasionally–until one night I was honest with myself and admitted that the thing tasted like hell, and I always knew it tasted like hell, and I felt ashamed that I'd served it to my family as many times as I had. (Four.)
But back to my story. Monday evening, in a vain attempt to get supper on the table before 6:30 so I could get the kids in bed before 10:00 (did I mention that I hate Daylight Savings Time?), I authorized an excursion to the aforementioned Burger King. I believe I've said enough about that already. On Tuesday we had spaghetti. It's kind of hard to go wrong with spaghetti–though my mother managed to; after about 20 years of cooking it, she actually became physically incapable of making a decent tomato sauce. It was painful to watch this transformation. Not so much painful to watch, I guess, as painful to eat. But you know what I mean.
On Wednesday I made another recipe that we used to have a lot because it was easy and it was reasonably cheap, depending on the price of poultry or whether we had any in the freezer–Colophon Lemon Chicken Soup. I don't know what a
Colophon is. I think it's a restaurant, actually, but I've never been there. Anyway, the first many times we had this, it was quite wonderful. No, really. I even made it for other people, and they also liked it. I don't remember when it became disgusting. But trust me, it's quite disgusting now. I swore I'd never make it again, but–man, it's just so easy, and the kids will eat it. Unfortunately, they won't eat as much of it as the recipe makes, so I have a big tub full of Colophon Lemon Chicken Soup that is eventually going in the garbage can because my kids have not been in the mood for soup leftovers, and I'd rather eat Burger King than taste it again. (No fries, though.)
Last night we had pizza. Pizza is good. Tonight I don't know what we'll have. I'm out of cheap, easy recipes that I wish to inflict on myself. Not that I wanted to inflict the others. What happened to my plans to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches all week? I don't know. I ran out of jelly, actually, but that's another story. Did I mention that I hate grocery shopping? But I went grocery shopping yesterday. I spent a lot of money on cheese. (Safeway was having a two for one sale on cheese. How could I not buy a lot of cheese?) But I came home with no ideas for what to eat tonight. Unless we have hot dogs. They also had a two for one sale on
Ball
Park All-Beef Franks. Which I wouldn't have remembered if Elvis hadn't gone crazy in the bread aisle and started grabbing random packages of bread products and tossing them in the cart. One of those random packages had hot dog buns. I always feel guilty about feeding my kids hot dogs for dinner. It's a throwback to the days when I actually cared what my vegan friend thought of me. That's another story. Hot dogs it is.
SD comes home tonight, circa 11 p.m. Long after the hot dog hour has passed. I will ask him what he ate for dinner. I will feel better after that.
It seems like Ash Wednesday comes earlier every year. I knew it was imminent, though, when I saw that McDonald’s was offering cheap Filet-o-Fish Fridays again. You would think most Catholics would give up eating at McDonald’s for Lent, but you can’t blame Ronald for trying. Actually, I think just about every Catholic I know hates fish. (And I do know my share of Catholics–and former Catholics.) Each traces his or her fish aversion back to Lents of yore, when their childhood homes were filled with the unrelenting stench of poorly-prepared fish, or alternatively, fish sticks. Which is a shame because now they will never know the joys of salmon poached in coconut milk with swiss chard and tomatoes. Beats hell out of Filet-o-Fish, anyway.
Sugar Daddy likes to mock my food aversions. He’s really confused and frustrated by my hatred of olives. “You like pickles,” he says. “Pickles are just like olives.”
“No, they’re not.”
“Yes, they are.”
“No, they’re not.”
“They’re plants soaked in brine. They’re exactly the same food.”
“Then why don’t you get pickles on your pizza?”
“Because it’s a different texture. Is it the texture you don’t like?”
“I don’t know how I feel about the texture because the taste makes me sick before I have time to consider the effects of the texture on my palate.”
“You eat things with olive oil in them. How can you like olive oil when you don’t like olives?”
“Olive oil doesn’t taste like olives.”
“It’s made from olives!”
“I know, I don’t understand it myself. Why don’t we cook things in pickle juice from now on?”
He’s also disturbed by the fact that I don’t like canned fruit. He thinks I’d be a lot more relaxed and happy if I just ate more fruit, and every time he opens a can of fruit, or more properly, “fruit,” he offers me some, which I almost always refuse, and then he lectures me about my bowels and tells me not to blame him when I have a heart attack or whatever because I didn’t eat enough fruit. I try to tell him that canned fruit doesn’t contain any nutrients, so I’m not really missing anything, but he doesn’t believe me.
The thing he finds really amusing, though, is my Cheerios phobia. I admit that this is a little irrational on my part. I say “a little” because while I recognize that Cheerios probably ought not to inspire the fear and loathing that they do in me, I still think, from an objective standpoint, that those little oat circles are just plain disgusting. As a mother I encounter plenty of gross stuff on a daily basis, which I just take in stride, because hey, that’s what moms do. It boggles SD’s mind that I can catch my child’s vomit with my bare hands, but I become completely unhinged at the sight of a wet Cheerio. ::Shudder::
I think the reason I find soggy Cheerios so much less appealing than vomit is that I can’t get my head around the fact that people actually eat this stuff. (Cheerios, that is.) I mean…gah! How can you stand it? And don’t you dare make any comments about how you like to let your Cheerios get soggy before you eat them, or ask any philosophical questions about vomited Cheerios versus soggy Filet-o-Fishes, because my sensibilities are quite delicate, and you may never hear from me again if I get grossed-out to death. The vomit, so to speak, will be on your hands.
Madhousewife's "Bring Out the Hellmann's and Bring Out the Hell!" Potato Salad
2 lbs. red potatoes1 1/4 cup mayonnaise (the more fat, the better)1 Tbsp. mustard1/2 cup chopped red onion1/2 cup chopped celery 1/2 cup diced dill pickle (I said DILL)6 hard-boiled eggs1/2 tsp. salt1/4 tsp. pepper
Yadda yadda, you do what you do with potatoes in a salad–boil 'em, peel 'em or don't peel 'em, I don't care, etc. etc. Put it all together and refrigerate it for at least 6 hours. (But not all week–it's not an aging process or anything.) In the past I've replaced some of the mayo (some, not all) with sour cream, and that's pretty good, but, yeah, whatever.
Mayonnaise is good food.
No, this is not your mother's blog. But it sure feels like it when you're reading a recipe for potato salad, doesn't it? Enough people dared me to post this, so here it is. It may not be the Best…Potato Salad…Ever! but it was better than the other potato salad at the ladies' auxiliary bbq last night, even if I do slander it myself. (I mean, it was okay, but…it was a little sweet.) Oh, and I do expect a little quid pro quo here, ladies. Also Asadullah, if he can teach me to use turmeric properly.
So last night the ladies' auxiliary had its annual Service Auction, wherein each of us put various services–such as babysitting, dinner-making and the like–up for bid and bid on them with the worst possible currency, fake money. Oh, the rules are too complex and stupid to get into here. Suffice it to say that without real collateral involved, "buying" something was really more like winning the lottery, but it was all in good fun, just the same. Brother H served as our auctioneer, and he warned us all to be "nice." (Whatever that means. Pft.)
Certain items went quickly, such as Sister Rodriguez's homemade salsa, and Sister Somebody Else's chocolate chip cookie dough brownies. (No, I did not get them. Insert sad emoticon here.) The babysitting services were less desirable than one would expect, mostly because they had so many bummer restrictions, like you could only use it so you and your husband could go the temple. As if. Shaking head.
There was a certain "pampering" gift bag, the contents of which were not disclosed, nor were they visible to the naked eye, but Brother H seemed especially anxious for his wife to bid on it, so that upped its value considerably. For some reason. Anyway, it naturally went to the (single) Japanese exchange student who'd come with Sister Rodriguez. And good for her.
Some ladies auctioned off their professional skills–there were free piano lessons, dance lessons, language lessons, gardening advice, blah blah–but the most hotly contested item was a free consultation from an interior designer. It happened to go to a lady sitting at our table, who blurted out, "Oh, goody! I need bedroom advice!" To which my end of the table promptly responded with a barely contained BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
"What do you think, sister? Should I be using silk sheets, or satin?"
Anyway, that's all I remember. I mean, there were handmade gift cards and soaps and Tupperware (don't scoff, it didn't go cheap)–but nothing more exciting than the porcelain cow planter that one sister graciously allowed another sister to outbid her on, until she got a closer look at it. "Hey, you didn't say it had an udder! I love udders!" (I included that comment only so you could get a taste of the surreal nature of the evening's festivities.)
What did I get, you ask? Jack crap. But that was okay. Sniff. I'm used to it. Anyway, no one was auctioning off what I really could use, which is free hair coloring for the rest of my life.
My life as a redhead
So far my new hair color has gotten mixed reviews. Mister Bubby has pronounced it "cwazy." My husband is indifferent. The ladies at church like it, as did the young man from the singles ward who hit on me in the foyer last Sunday. Lest you think I'm overstating the case, you should know that at the time I was falling asleep in the chair outside the bishop's office (no, I was not in trouble) and this guy actually felt the need to wake me up in order to hit on me. Which was annoying, but it all goes to show that I've still got it. Whatever "it" is that attracts the sort of creepy, annoying guys who always hit on me, married or single.
I haven't decided yet if I'll keep it or not. I can't afford to have it done professionally, and doing it myself was a big pain in the neck. On the other hand, it has made me more attractive to other women and annoying creeps, so…I don't know. What do you all think?
Some discoveries I've recently made about food:
1) Cadbury Creme Eggs are NOT good four months after Easter.
2) Turmeric doesn't taste like anything, but some foods look a lot less gross when they're yellow.
3) There's nothing like Real Mayonaisse. Or is that Mayonnaise? Mayonaise. Man-nayz. Crap, I'll just look it up.
Mayonnaise. There's nothing like it. When it's real.
July is a special time of year because it's the only time of year I make potato salad. I hate making potato salad, but I just can't have Fourth of July without potato salad. I don't know why not, but I can't. And I have to make potato salad myself because no one else does it right.
My mother made great potato salad, but she's no longer with us. My sister makes great potato salad like Mom did, but she lives many hundred miles away. I spent the first several summers of my marriage trying to re-create my mother's potato salad, but I just couldn't get it right. What was missing? I just couldn't figure it out. I was using the exact same recipe. Was it that mystical ingredient, love? No, didn't think so. (I loved, did I not? Potato salad I loved, anyway.) Was it the fact that my mother always ground up her boiled eggs with a baby food grinder? No, that was just weird. (My mother minced everything to microscopic bits. Probably a habit from years of trying to hide unappealing vegetables in our food. Or she seriously had some kind of genetic defect that prevented her from chopping anything coarsely.) I asked my sister how she made her potato salad, but she didn't offer me any new information.
I was stumped, so I went elsewhere looking for the secret to good potato salad. I went to a church pot luck to which a friend of ours had brought absolutely fabulous potato salad. Lest you think I'm gushing over something really trivial, I'm telling you, even the men were asking for the recipe. She, like all annoying chefs, said, "Oh, my gosh, I don't remember what I put in it. It's different every time. I just put whatever in it. You know. Sour cream, potatoes…"Sour cream, I thought. Yes, sour cream would make anything more delicious. We didn't buy sour cream in those days because Sugar Daddy had this theory that yogurt was the same thing and it was healthier. Well, yogurt is healthy and delicious and all, but it's not sour cream–as I found out when I attempted to make potato salad with mayonnaise and yogurt. (Oh, sure. Laugh at me all you want, but it was low-fat and full of calcium.) So the next year I defied my husband and bought real sour cream for my potato salad. And it still didn't taste that great. What was I doing wrong? I was doing everything my mother and sister had done. I was even using real, old-fashioned, full-fat, high-calorie sour cream, and it was still wrong, wrong, wrong.
And then it hit me. Real Mayonnaise.
I had not bought Real Mayonnaise in years–not since marrying Sugar Daddy, who had a theory, not unlike his yogurt theory, that low-fat mayonnaise tasted just like regular mayonniase, and anyone who still bought regular mayonnaise was just an idiot. That's right–idiot. I wasn't quite sure at first that this was true, but since he felt so strongly on the subject, and since his father had died from a heart attack at 35, I deferred to his judgment and bought nothing but low-fat mayonnaise. I got used to it. It was all right. Better than no-salt-added green beans, anyway. Blecch.
But now I felt like an idiot for listening to him. Of course low-fat mayonnaise isn't the same as real mayonnaise! That's why my potato salad was no good. That's why I couldn't stomach tomato sandwiches anymore even though they used to be one my favorite things. I wasn't using inferior vegetables. I was using inferior condiments! And it was his fault. Idiot.
So the next time I set out to make potato salad, I secretly bought some mayonnaise. Best Foods Real Mayonnaise–I took no risks. (Best Foods, incidentally, is known as Hellmann's east of the
Mississippi, or wherever the invisible line dividing markets is. I know this because when I moved to
Virginia to go to college, I discovered that the two brands used the same jingle. At home the television ad would sing, "Bring out the Best Foods and bring out the best!" At college whenever they'd start singing, "Bring out the Hellmann's," I'd always expect them to say, "And bring out the hell!" But they never did.)
After tasting my new and improved potato salad, which was finally just like Mom used to make, Sugar Daddy said, "Mad, I think this is the best potato salad you've ever made."
"You know why?" I said.
"Why?"
"Real Mayonnaise, bucko!"
"You bought real mayonnaise? Idiot."
Even he had to face facts, though. This potato salad was significantly superior to all others previous. Since then he has acquiesced to my demand that he buy me Real Mayonnaise once a year, specifically for the purpose of making potato salad. And for about a month after I make the potato salad, I get to enjoy what Real Mayonnaise remains in the jar, until it runs out and I have to go back to making sandwiches with that low-fat crap.
I am currently down to about one tablespoon of the good stuff this year, and I am not ready to give it up yet. So I have volunteered to make potato salad for my church's ladies auxiliary meeting this week so that I will be forced to buy a new jar of Real Mayonnaise that I can continue to enjoy until at least mid-September.
I know some of you all are thinking, "Potato salad made with mayonnaise? That's disgusting." Because you all make potato salad with sweet dressing and sweet pickle relish, which is just, pardon me, wrong. Sorry, you're wrong. I'm right. All the commercial potato salad makers are wrong. I'm right. You're not going to argue with my dead mother's recipe, are you? Are you? I thought not.
(Incidentally, I read somewhere that putting cinnamon and cloves in oatmeal cookies is a Mormon–i.e.
Utah–thing. Is that true? I can understand no cloves, but no cinnamon? What's the matter with you Gentiles?)
Almost four years ago I was nine months pregnant and holding with Mister Bubby when I had the opportunity to attend ye olden Mormon event known as the Annual Ward Chili Cookoff. Every ward I've ever lived in has had an annual chili cookoff, despite the fact that a majority of Mormons know next to nothing about making chili. (Sorry, kids, but it's the truth.)
So here I am, nine months pregnant at the Ward Chili Cookoff, and naturally I have to endure a lot of "haven't you had that baby yet?" remarks, as well as warnings not to eat too much chili. In fact, I don't believe anyone interacted with me that evening without feeling compelled to make some cute remark about the folly of a pregnant woman eating chili. It's not like I was in any danger because half of this chili was just ground beef with marinara sauce, but I took it in good humor all the same. At least I think I did. I don't know. Nine-month-pregnant women aren't usually known for their senses of humor, just as mothers of three aren't famous for their long-term memories.
Well, not all of the chili at this particular cookoff was bland. Sugar Daddy, being the macho man that he is, made a very good chili that year–spicy, but not so hot that you couldn't taste it. Now I admit that as part of our food snobbery, SD and I are also heat snobs. We can appreciate that not everyone enjoys spicy food, but our consensus is that if you can't tolerate anything hotter than mild salsa, you probably need to just grow up. I don't like the heat of my food to detract from its taste, but I find as the years go by and more of my taste buds get burned off, I require my food to be ever more spicy. (This was especially true during my pregnancy with Elvis, when I was in perpetual need of having my sinuses drained. I think Elvis inherited a lot of my immunity to heat because every time we go to Mexican restaurants, he's the one eating salsa directly out of the bowl. But I digress.) However, as SD was in this contest for the win, I advised him to hold back ever so slightly on whatever variety of peppers he was using that year so as not to overwhelm any wimpy, Utah-born palates.
So while SD was spying on the judges, I was feeding Princess Zurg and Mister-Bubby-in-Utero chili and listening to the advice of a lady in the ward who worked as an obstetric nurse at the hospital I was to deliver at. She wanted me to hold off on having the baby until the following Monday because that was when she'd be back on shift. She also told me that if I wanted to go into labor, SD and I should just go home and have lots of sex. That remark brought on its fair share of giggles from the other ladies at my table (all of the men were also spying on the judges, as I recall), but I took it in about the same manner as I had all the chili remarks–smiling and nodding and looking forward to the day when I would no longer be pregnant and people wouldn't feel entitled to publicly speculate about my bodily functions, reproductive or otherwise.
We returned home that evening, SD severely disappointed that he hadn't won the award for Best-Tasting Chili because half of the judges couldn't tolerate the spiciness of his entry. However, he did not win Hottest Chili either, because another gentleman in the ward had dared to take his chili-making places where his wife had probably warned him not to go. This especially irked SD, and he vowed that next time, he would take no prisoners and take home that award.I tell you all of this so that you understand why I woke up at 6 a.m. the following morning with what I assumed to be the worst gas pain known to woman, pregnant or otherwise. I knew I couldn't be in labor because when I got up and walked around, I felt better. Sort of. If I walked for a very long time. After an hour or so of this, SD noticed my discomfort and said, "Are you in labor?"
"No, I'm not in labor. It's just gas."
"Are you sure you're not in labor? Because it seems like you're in labor."
"Hello, I think I would know if I were in labor, seeing how I'm the only one in the room who's given birth before."
"Okay, fine. But I still think you're in labor."
"Whatever!"
As I said, pregnant women aren't known for their senses of humor. Or their cheerful dispositions.
Or, at least in our house, their judgement, because about fifteen minutes later I ended up asking SD to time my gas pains.
Soon we were dropping off Princess Zurg with neighbors and speeding through the streets of suburban
Portland, which were fortunately empty on this Sunday morning. I was weeping and wailing and gnashing my teeth in the passenger seat, while SD was violating more traffic laws in five minutes than he'd done in all his driving years combined, because every time we came to a protected intersection, I'd scream, "WHY IS THIS LIGHT STILL RED?!!!"
When we got to the hospital, the nurses quickly caught on to the fact that I was in labor because I was pretty much freaking out at this point. At the peak of one particularly nasty contraction, one of them asked, "Are you going to need an anesthesiologist?"
"CAN I PLEASE NOT MAKE THAT DECISION RIGHT NOW?" I asked.
She said, "Certainly," and waited patiently until I'd calmed down enough to say, for some inexplicable reason, "No, thank you."
We soon found out that it was a good thing I would not require an anesthesiologist because I was (SQUEAMISH, PLEASE AVERT YOUR EYES) already at nine centimeters. For those of you unfamiliar with the labor and delivery process, that meant that the baby was coming any minute now. They finished doing all that other stuff they do when you check in to a hospital (I still don't know because I've never paid much attention, frankly), and told me I could get in the Jacuzzi tub if I wanted and to call them when I felt like pushing.
Let me tell you, that Jacuzzi tub felt awesome. For about two minutes, and then I was screaming to be pulled out because I didn't want to have a water birth. Five minutes later, Mister Bubby made his worldwide debut.
Now I know you all are disappointed that I didn't end up having the baby on the side of the road or an elevator or the middle of a gay pride parade, and I have to say, from an artistic standpoint, I am too–but from a woman-in-travail standpoint I think it worked out just fine the way it did. They announced my son's arrival over the pulpit at church, and the good news is that everyone assumed it was the chili that had done it, and not that SD and I had been having raucous sex the night before.
Fast forward to the present day. By our good fortune we find ourselves in the same ward we were in that fateful night four years ago, and the Annual Ward Chili Cookoff is upon us once again. Well, sort of. It's not until September, but SD is already plotting his revenge. Fortunately, I am not pregnant this time, and few people remember the circumstances of my middle child's birth, but everyone knows I'm married to the guy who plans to win Hottest Chili at any cost.
"I'm pulling out all the stops this time," he says. "I'm going to start with a can of El Pato red chile sauce–"
"Better make it at least two," I say.
"Right. Two cans of El Pato, a couple tablespoons of cayenne, maybe some habaneros–ooh, habaneros, those would be good…"
"It sounds like a waste of beans to me."
"I'm going to get some of that good stew meat and marinate it in Bloody Mary mix. Then I'm going to barbecue the meat in that Iron Works Spicy Barbecue Sauce and put it in the chili–"
"Sounds like a waste of meat."
"I'm not going home empty handed," he says, as-God-is-his-witness. "I want people going to the hospital. I want them to sting their eyes when they lift up the lid."
"No one's going to want to eat this, including me."
"But you know there's something terribly satisfying about food that's so hot it just totally clears your sinuses."
"I don't have a problem with it clearing my sinuses. I just don't want it clearing out all my other body cavities while it's at it."
"That's the other thing–I want all the porcelain to be scoured off every toilet bowl in the church…"
And the conversation, believe it or not, deteriorated from there. Suffice it to say that he's decided he'll need to bring extra pairs of pants for the judges. As immature and tiresome as I find most toilet humor, I have to admit that he had me there. (Note: toilet humor is not the same as diaper humor. I mean, how could it be?)
I will keep you all posted on the casualties as they happen. And any births that may occur as the result of something more dangerous than raucous sex.
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