The House and I: The Guy Sure Looks Like Plant Food To Me

Last night was One Friend's final night in town. Until next month, that is, when I will be flying out to Sacramento (that's in California) and driving alllll the way home (that's in Massachusetts) with her and her One Dog.

Well, actually, not all the way to my home. But to her new home, in New Haven (which is in Connecticut), from where I will board a choo-choo for the last, two-hour leg. And then, after that, One Friend and I will not only be in the same time zone for the first time in seven years, we will also be just that teeny-tiny little two-hour train ride away from weekend visits whenever we can scrape up the $120.

Yay!

But for now, back to where I started.

Last night was her final night in town. Also the first time since she got here that she and Johnny were both in the AssVac. So I requested that he make his Special Chicken Curry for our sup. This is something he wants to make at least two times a week, and usually I want to fall to my knees and cry "No. More. Chicken. Curry!" But it is really good, and since One Friend and I have been living since she arrived on a diet of variously-melted cheeses, plus whatever happened to fall under them -- with the incongruous exception of a shockingly large wooden junk decorated with raw fish -- I thought it best to send her off with something healthy in her bel. One Friend was due on the 3:15 from New Haven, she'd be under our roof again by 4:00. I chopped up some veggies to be a healthy snack for us while dinner was cooking, and Johnny agreed to feed us sometime before dark.

One Friend, fortunately, is an avid student of The House and I. So -- even though she was due to arrive at what is, for normal people, just an hour or two shy of suppertime -- she went ahead and ate a sandwich on the train. It's a good thing, too, because when we got back from the station, Himself was still up at the pub. And, for some odd reason, the AssVac smelled like dirt.

We ignored the dirt smell, watched Top Chef reruns, and munched on crudité. And, since I brought it up, let me just say this about this season's crop of "chefs": without lamps, my friends, there'd be no light. (Even One Friend didn't get that reference when I made it out loud in actual, real-time context, but I'm still proud enough of it to want to share. Maybe somebody out there will understand. Amalie?)

Anyway, Johnny got home just in time to ruin the final judging so we don't know who got sent home (though we hope it was Big Baldy. He deserves it for saying that "fine dining and Mexican don't go together" -- as if there is not a single high-end restaurant in all of Mexico. That, and for cooking corn dogs four hours before they would be served. Neomaxizoomdweebie.). And then he (we're back to Johnny, now) had the sterile balls to announce that it was time to make some pickles.

Remember at Christmastime, when we made pickled beets and eggs? Well, Johnny gave a jar of them to Andy. He didn't open them until February sometime, and when he did he ate those suckers up. Liked 'em so much he wanted more, and he also wanted to learn to make them for himself. So -- two days before Johnny left for Ireland -- Andy showed up with sacks and sacks of beets. Twenty-five pounds, all together; ten for us, fifteen for him. He wanted to get started right away, but we convinced him the beets would keep until Johnny got home. Which ours did. In the refrigerator.

Andy, apparently, chose to skip this crucial step. Andy, apparently, brought his beet-sacks home and abandoned them upon the pantry floor. Andy, apparently, was now the proud owner of fifteen pounds of soft white fuzz. So Johnny, being Johnny, determined to save the day.

Which is why the AssVac smelled like dirt when we walked in:

Eau de cooked beet = 1 part corn, 1 part sugar, 1 part dirt. And of course, once they're boiled, they really must be pickled right away. Otherwise, ten pounds of cooked beets sitting in water overnight would leave us with -- well, since this is us (by which I mean since this is Johnny), it would probably leave us with yet another carboy of something homebrewed and disgusting. So I gave him permission to pickle away. One Friend had had her sandwich, after all, and I was picking at my crude. We could wait a few more hours for our curry.

A few more hours later, Johnny was still dicking around with the vegetable peeler. He said he didn't want to just slip the skins off (which is one of the only joys, as far as I'm concerned, in handling cooked beets) because it would make the skins look ugly. Because he planned on pickling the skins as well. Because, as his mother's son, he is constitutionally incapable of throwing anything away.

(I kid you not. Yesterday, I found a small head of Romaine lettuce that was in the fridge before he left. It was not what I'd call fresh, but it was not exactly rotten either -- just sort of limp. He wouldn't let me compost it. He plans to put it with the half-cabbage we didn't cook on Patrick's Day, and make himself a soup. That's right, a lettuce soup. The kicker is, it will probably be delicious.)

But by 7:00, knowing that dinner can take Johnny the best part of two hours once he starts it, and also knowing how I get when I get hungry, One Friend took it upon herself to stop the movie we were watching and go in to help.

Only, instead, she killed him.

There was blood everywhere. On the new cabinets.

On the floor in the back hall.

But, fortunately, most of it went back into the pan the beets came out of. When I saw it there, it suddenly occurred to me how long it's been since I tie-dyed anything (which would be since the last time somebody made me do it when I went to summer camp). I looked around for an appropriate textile to hippie-fy and I found this, which Johnny brought home from his recent trip:

But with his dying breath my husband cried "Ya will, me bollocks!" And, since it was his last request and all, I found a shirt to dye instead.

I left it in too long, though, and something vile happened. I still don't know exactly what. But whatever it was, yuck.

The shirt came out looking like someone washed the car with it. If, that is, anyone around here would ever do a thing like that.

And, also, it smells like dirt. Skips the corn and sugar and just goes full-on underground.

Anyway, after we had finished chopping Johnny into bits...