Archives for October 2007

Your funny comments about how some of you also have husbands who see soup as more of an appetizer than a meal made me think of a conversation that D and I had one afternoon when I was planning a big shindig for church.

And I don’t want to oversell it, but I really do believe that if you are a newlywed, the information I’m about to reveal to you could quite possibly change your marriage forever.

Oh yeah. It’s that good.

So about three years ago I was cooking for something at our church, and I was in menu-planning mode. I had four or five cookbooks scattered on top of the dining room table, and I was trying to find a main course that would be simple to fix for a large crowd. I was primarily looking at casserole recipes because those are easy to make ahead of time, and at some point D wandered into the dining room and asked what I was doing.

I filled him in on the details, and I showed him three or four of the dishes I was considering.

He got very quiet, and after about thirty seconds, he said, “You know, I don’t think these recipes are your answer.”

I quickly started to rattle off an alphabetized and itemized list of all the reasons why my selections would WORK JUST FINE, THANK YOU, but D just grinned and said, “There’s something you’re not thinking about.”

OH?

REALLY?

WELL THEN.

I figured I might as well humor him, so I said, “What’s that? What am I forgetting? Because as you know, I’VE NEVER COOKED BEFORE EVER.”

“Well,” he answered, “it’s simple. Men like identifiable meat.”

“Excusemebegyourpardon?”

“Men like identifiable meat. We like to know what we’re eating. If the chicken or the beef or whatever is buried in a big ole casserole and we have to ask someone what we’re putting on our plates, we don’t like that. We like to see a hunk of meat on our plate.”

I thought this was quite possibly the most profound statement I’d ever heard.

IDENTIFIABLE MEAT.

It’s brilliant, really.

And since that day, I have never planned a meal at church without making sure that we have an identifiable meat. I have made this pork tenderloin recipe more times than I can count, and let me just tell you: serve it with some warm Parker House or potato rolls, and men will swoon.

They will swoon verily, I say unto you.

And a lot of times I don’t even have to cook the main course myself. I’ll just pick up a bunch of chicken from Popeye’s or some big trays of pulled pork from a barbecue place. There’s a local restaurant that does great fajitas to-go, and I can buy trays of chicken and beef already cooked for less than I could go buy all the ingredients myself.

And the meal, it is delicious.

And the men, they are happy.

And the meat, IT IS IDENTIFIABLE.

The end.

Now I’ll be the first to admit that I stayed up way too late last night watching a replay of the Mississippi State / Kentucky game for the third time, and that’s not counting the fact that I watched The Sylvester Croom Show twice, but please do not make fun of me because OH SWEET MERCY IT’S FUN TO WIN FOR A CHANGE.

However, since I stayed up so late last night, I was not exactly at the top of my mental or emotional game at 6:30 this morning when I tumbled out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen, pourin’ myself a cup of ambition as I yawned and stretched and tried to come to life.

(Even when I’m tired I still love me some Dolly.)

But that is neither here nor there.

Because when I opened the refrigerator to grab my half and half, I thought, Hmmm, that’s interesting, this half and half container isn’t very cold.

And then: Hmmm, that’s interesting, the inside of the refrigerator is sort of warm.

Hmmm.

That would be the back of our refrigerator.

The refrigerator that is no longer working.

Because it no longer “refrigerates” or “freezes” or “makes ice” or “keeps food fresh.”

Which means that we had some “meat” and some “frozen goods” that “turned.”

Fortunately, I have a husband who is handy, and he has ordered a part and hopes to have everything up and running by Wednesday or Thursday.

In the meantime, we’re just going to eat all our perishables like there’s no tomorrow.

I would hate to waste all that perfectly good cheese.

Anyway, after Alex finished school we ran to the mall so that I could return some stuff, and I ran smack dab into this dress, and y’all I am not kidding when I tell you that it took every ounce of restraint I have – along with a super-sized portion of the Holy Spirit – to keep me from slapping that dress on the counter and buying it right then and there.

Because I have so many opportunities to wear sparkly things.

But I tried to justify it by telling myself that I could wear it to church with black tights (totally could), and I could wear it during the holidays (true that), and I could throw it on in the springtime with chunky black sandals and feel oh-so-sassy (preach on, sister).

The problem, though, is that it’s beyond our budget right now, and I know it’s beyond our budget right now, and besides that WHO WERE THOSE EVIL LEPRECHAUNS WHO DRAGGED ME IN THE DRESSING ROOM TO TRY ON THAT DRESS, ANYWAY?

In the end I stood firm against the dress’ sparkly powers, but that does not mean that I won’t be gazing at the picture lovingly. With great, loving feelings for all the loveliness contained in this dress that I love so dearly.

And I have to confess that while I was in the dressing room Romans 12:2 came to mind. But it’s not so much that I want to conform to the pattern of this world. It’s just that I would really, really like to be conformed to the pattern of that dress.

I’m just seeking God’s will, people. God’s fun, funky and sparkly will.

After I bid the dress a bittersweet farewell (I bet it misses me. Seriously. It’s probably crying right about now.), Alex and I had to run to Walmart because obviously I felt that adding insult to injury would be the most fitting way to continue with my day.

But get a load of this. At some point as we were wheeling down the aisles I noticed that Alex had gotten very quiet, and you’re not even going to believe what had happened.

It took him a little over four years, but he finally talked himself to sleep.

I mean, look at his mouth. It’s like he just nodded off mid-word.

God love him.

The quiet, however, did not last for long.

Look!

Not sure what that is?

Why, it’s the place where my rear windshield wiper used to be!

Before the little man ripped it off this afternoon!

Apparently he needed the windshield wiper for leverage when he was trying to climb onto the roof of my car. Which is a completely different set of issues, I guess, but in the grand scheme of things, a broken windshield wiper is probably not that big of a deal.

Until, you know, it rains.

Here’s to Tuesday, everybody.

I hope that yours is sparkly.