Food Tsunami

James likes to cook after I scrub the kitchen. It’s usually just meat, but occasionally he’ll throw a vegetable in there, provided it’s immersed in some sort of sauce he created from salad dressing, cheese and whatever he can find in the refrigerator door that hasn’t expired. One time, at 3:00 a.m. he handed me a plate that included bacon, country fried pork, and a slab of ham. I never know what to expect, but it’s usually complicated and involves every pan he can get his hands on. He often photographs his projects and posts them online along with his “secret” recipes. He’s a proud man.

Our kitchen is smaller than the master bathroom in my house in Grand Rapids. If you have to get into the fridge when someone else is in there, the other person has to step into the oven. I try not to go in there when he’s working his food magic unless I’m summoned to chop an onion or find the soy sauce. I can hear what’s happening, but I really don’t want to know because I’ll find out soon enough after he abandons the job. On his tombstone I’m going to chisel, “I’ll clean it later.”

He makes these great offerings to me; these overflowing platters of gruel, when I’m least hungry. I have to eat it all or his feelings are hurt. “Don’t you like my food?” “Ummm, yes, but you gave me a pile of meat that’s bigger than my head, and is as taller than that mound of potatoes from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. “

Everything within two feet of the stove is covered in splatter. What I never understand is how I find food and butter wrappers in the sink when the garbage is sitting right next to his feet. I’ll be scrubbing the cupboards after he cooks, wondering what the Hell the sticky green stuff is and where he found mint jelly. Plus, what the heck was it IN? Was that lamb I was eating? Sometimes it’s hard to tell because he enjoys overcooking animal proteins. I’ll be on my 99^th chew of a skewered piece of beef when he says, “What do you think?” The answer is always, “Wow, this is fantastic!”

I once found my hamster behind the refrigerator. She was huge; yet another victim of James’ Muppet Show Swedish Chef cooking style. What did she find? Chicken nuggets? Petrified pizza crust? A stray side of beef? She could have lived for years back there had I not heard the crunching.

James was in there again tonight. I came home from work and found a non-stick fry pan caked with something I had to soak off; a 2 foot long BBQ spatula; and a plate caked with cheese in the sink along with two beer cans and a dirty cake pan. His motto is, “I cook it. YOU clean it!” I don’t think this should apply if there is absolutely no evidence that there was anything for me OR the hamster. I probably wasn’t looking close enough. I’m sure he left me something under the stove.

Valley of the Dogs

I picked up my dog at the vet a few days ago. She had minor surgery to remove a growth that went from the size of a pea to the size of a grape and then to the size of a pea again; then it grew again and she couldn’t stop licking it. My local vet is scary. I think he might be German and he has Wagner blaring from speakers in the ceiling in a Jewish neighborhood. It’s a little creepy. However, basically everyone around here recommends him. His office looks like a set from Scary Movie 8: The SAW Chronicles. He has old National Geographic magazines from like 1952 and Field and Stream placed perfectly on the waiting room tables. I'm afraid to move them, lest I get them out of their perfect chronological order. Our old boxer, God rest her soul, hated him and almost bit his face off when he tried to trim her nails.

Peaches had only been there once to get a second rabies shot when we couldn’t get the paperwork for her first one. She was reluctant to enter, as most "children" seem to fear the possibility of a shot. My eighteen year old son still has to be distracted when a needle appears, “Hey, I was thinking about buying you a car! (‘OUCH’) NOT!” Anyway, my stomach was in knots when I went to pick up Peaches, an hour earlier than scheduled. Dr. ich bin ein Berliner told me I could take her home and that she was fine. I didn’t realize that “fine” meant that she was high as a kite and stumbling like a drunken lumberjack on a log roll.

He brought her out into the lobby where I had a new toy monkey waiting for her. She stumbled into my arms and tried to lick my face, missing my lips every time. Then she turned back to the vet and ran at him to kiss him into oblivion. She kept running back and forth between us, her look saying, “I love YOU vet! I love YOU!” “Thanks for the monkey, mom! Is this my monkey? I can’t keep it in my mouth. Is this my monkey? Carry it! Wait, I’ll take it! NOPE, YOU take it!” “I love you vet!” This dance went on for a good two minutes before we left the horror film set and cartwheeled toward the car.

She spent the rest of the afternoon falling into walls and acting like all the toys she’d recently become bored with were now the most interesting and exciting things on the planet. Her brother stood by and watched; his brow furrowed in confusion as his sister spent the next few hours on a trip that was clearly the result of the antiquated canine barbiturate doping system. James was absolutely aghast that a milder, “less fun” sedative hadn’t been used. As for me, I was thrilled for her and am now contemplating having this chicken pox scar on my chin removed. I wonder if being a Dr. of Veterinary Medicine also qualifies you to operate on humans. All I could think was, “I want what she’s having.” I still don’t know if she was smiling all day, or just couldn’t keep her twelve inch tongue in her mouth under the influence.

I don’t know how to break it to her that next time she goes to the vet she probably won’t be getting the same treatment. We’re both going to be very disappointed.