I made a large bowl of rather excellent pasta, if I may say so. Allow me to walk your through the process, which was chaotic but ultimately packed with flavor and excitement. Let’s begin by discussing the ingredients.
For what I’m calling “Chicken Hilarity”, you will need:
Chicken breast, sauteed in olive oil, salt, and basil. (I couldn’t find the chicken, but realized I’d left it in the car, along with eggs and hummus. Since the temperature was close to 20F, the chicken was almost frozen. I thawed it in the pan while cooking, and it came to a lively sizzle.
Ziti, cooked until tender.
Onions and mushrooms, sauteed in olive oil.
Spicy marinara (I make my own).
Combine these ingredients in a large bowl, cover with fresh Parmesan and crumbled feta cheeses.
As I sat down to eat, several events began to unfold that altered the outcome of my meal.
- My son began channeling Linda Blair. The stomach flu hit him hard and fast, resulting in several changes of sheets, a shower, more fresh linens, another shower, and then fitful sleep as we listened from the other room.
- Our basset hound, Jack Reacher, injured his front leg whilst playing in the snow. As basset hounds are known for being– let’s say, dramatic– we helped him inside, called the veterinarian, and placed him on the floor under a blanket in front of a heater. The pitiful wretch barely survived, but thanks to our care and compassion, he managed to pull through his minor ankle sprain.
It was at this point that I was able to eat. I consumed, as usual, the entire portion of pasta, which means all of it.
And then I began to feel somewhat. . . uncomfortable.
Could it be the stomach flu? Unlikely. We disinfect everything with maniacal abandon, and my discomfort was completely in my belly.
It wasn’t the chicken, despite being left in the car, because the temperature was WELL below freezing and–
Wait, what day was it? Friday?
I did some calculations. I’d gone shopping on. . .Wednesday.
Thursday, the temperature had been nearly 70F.
I’d left the chicken in the car for two days, not one, and it had been rather tropical in my car.
I write this to you from an undisclosed location, where no one can hear the sounds emanating from my stomach. If you don’t see me at the next author event, do not send help. It’s too late.
Save yourselves. And someone throw away the chicken in the left hand drawer of our fridge. It’s angry.
