CHOPPED

Someone once said, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”.

That person didn’t have what Dave and I had for dinner tonight.

After what had seemed like hours of perusing all our recipe books I told Dave that I had had enough!

(This type of decision-making process is not limited to creating a menu. Sometimes we will surf Netflix for an hour or more on our weekend evenings in attempts to select the very best movie. To Dave this approach is in line with “the finer things of life”, to me it’s maddening)

In an effort to move things along (and because I know Dave can’t turn down a challenge) I declared that tonight was “Chopped Night”.



(Chopped is a Food Network TV show we occasionally watch where contestants have to create a dish out of ingredients given to them in a basket in a certain amount of time)

I told Dave he could use anything we had in the house but he couldn’t look at any recipe books and dinner had to be completed in an hour.

Now, all of you who think that I just sat idly by; watching him run, sweat, and pull his hair out, well… you would be right.

Looking back, oh how I wish I had stepped in and saved him. Oh how I wish I would have said something. Oh how I wish I had pictures!

Dave’s final dish had three items: Chicken, sauce, and rice.

He’s a pro at making rice.

The chicken held promise. But I became more and more concerned as the list on ingredients grew:

Chicken

Salt

Pepper

Thyme

Oregano

Basil

Garlic

Butter

AMPLE amount of Lemon Juice

Lime Juice

Sprinkled with Parmesan cheese

Dave has never been one to be burdened by measuring. So all ingredients were thrown in a glass baking dish haphazardly.

Although the chicken had me concerned, it was the homemade sauce that really struck fear into my heart:

Cream of Chicken Soup

AMPLE amounts of Lemon juice

Lime Juice

Milk

Corn Starch

Ginger…

Buffalo wing sauce…

And…

Maple Syrup…

Before it all came out of the oven Dave hung his head and pronounced himself- CHOPPED.

All I can say is that Dave makes one great batch of rice.

Black Crickets, Purple Death

Liz's sister Jane came over to our apartment bring Liz some soup the other day. I told her she might not want to come in, unless she wants the Plague.

Jane said, "I don't mind a bunch of crickets." I gave her a blank stare. She gave me a quizzical eyebrow raise.

Turns out, we were both thinking of different plagues.

Jane was talking about the Biblical plagues. Y'know, the plagues featured in The Ten Commandments and The Mummy (and I guess the Bible... in the book of...Judges? Chronicles II?)

I was thinking about the Black Death. The plague that wiped out half of Europe. The plague that would also go on to ravage North Africa and, if Wikipedia is to be believed, was an inspiration for the song Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down. Ok, I made up that last part about the ashes song. It's not on wikipedia, but I swear I've heard it somewhere. Pause while I go edit the post it on Wikipedia.

(Edited the wiki post. So credible, that Wikipedia)

Back to the task at hand. Why was I thinking about the Black Plague? Because for the last three weeks, Lizzie and I have had it. Well, maybe not the Black Plague exactly; I suppose we were visited by its less sinister cousin, once removed. The Purple Plague. Or the Pastel Plague. Not quite black, but nevertheless unwanted. 

The sickness started with me. For three days, I thought I had strep. Symptoms included: daggers and barbed wire sore throat, body ache, fever. I went to the doctor. After keeping me in the waiting room on the butcher paper for, I'm not making this up, an hour and a half, he told me he didn't think I had strep. But he'd run a test and tell me in two days. I gave him the "in two days I'll be dead" look, but he just shrugged it off and went back to doing whatever it is doctors do to make their patients wait for hours on end (he's probably editing wikipedia pages).

Two days later came, and I wasn't dead. Jokes on me, I guess. But the doctor's office did notify me that I did not have strep. I somehow knew this already, because at 3:02  that morning the Purple  Plague mutated into pnemonia, or bronchitis, or whatever it is you call a violent, nuclear cough, lungs turning into a swimming pool of fluid, head stuffed like a pimento-fused green olive, and a general fatigue so fatiguing I felt like I'd turn into a camoflauged army uniform (which, to those who might not get the joke, is also a fatigue. Dah. Now I just ruined it. Not funny if you have to explain).

So no, studying for finals was not fun in this aforementioned condition. But what made it even less fun? Lizzie soon contracted the sickness. Two Heywood's down, none to go. Plague-1. Wymount Apt #731-0.

Lizzie missed three days of work and two days of Relief Society. She's still not feeling 100%. If asked, she'd probably say that she's at 65%. (In fact, I asked her today and she said, "I'm at about 65%).

Although this sickness is The Worst Christmas Ever, I do have things to be grateful for.