Chicken with a side of crazy

Today was a fairly long and difficult day.  School had an early dismissal, my eight-year-old was acting like a hysterical toddler on crack, and for some reason my coping abilities the past few days have been remarkably diminished.

Everyone was still alive when Daddy got home, however, which under the circumstances was not an inconsiderable accomplishment.  Since everyone was staaarving I figured I should get busy in the kitchen.  The other day I paid ten blooming dollars for one pound of organic free-range antibiotic-free chicken breasts, and spent the other evening painstakingly handcrafting them in to homemade nuggets.  Being as they were free of processing, chemicals, and pulverized chicken toenails, three out of my four children preferred the pain of starvation to eating them.  In the past few years we have consumed more frozen chicken particles than the residents of Kentucky and Deleware combined, and yet the very idea of a nugget containing actual chicken was so horrifying even ketchup could not make them edible.

Did I mention that I spent ten dollars?  For one pound of poultry?  You can bet your horse’s left nut that every single one of those bastards went in to a plastic baggie destined for the refrigerator.  Yesterday I decided to mince them up into atom-sized pieces and hide them in some fried rice.  Genius!  Except that I had no soy sauce or oil.  (My oil was expired.  And smelled of old shoes.)

Undaunted, I dragged all of us to the food store this afternoon.  As previously stated, some of us were being more “special” than others.  Yet I am pleased and proud to report that I brought all four children back home with me afterwards.  Two accomplishments in one day!  I have “Mother of the Year” in the bag.

So anyhoo, Daddy arrived and it was time to cook.  Remember my diminished coping abilities?  It happens, inexplicably, every so often.  My brain will decide one day that it wants to process unholy amounts of rage for no definable reason.  I know it is not the kids’ fault, but more of a chemical short circuit in my skull that is pretty infrequent and never lasts long, so I’m usually fairly decent at internalizing it and appearing normal (enough).  So this evening I’m doing deep breathing exercises while dicing my (solid gold) chicken, heating my pan, unearthing my peas from the freezer jungle, and thinking that maybe I’m feeling better already, without even having to smash something!  I pat myself on the back with one hand, and reach for the eggs with the other when I beg your pardon?  Surely there is a wee trifle mistake?  We have no less than a half-dozen eggs, I know that for a fact, yet my hand pauses in puzzlement.  For that shelf appears empty.  I staunch the crazy and politely inquire “Dearest honeypie?  I am having trouble locating the eggs.  Do you have any assistance to offer?”

I am sure the suspense is killing you now, and as you may have expected, we are indeed out of eggs.  (Yes, I was just at the store!  Unfortunately, completely ignorant of our egglessness!)  But that’s okay!  Iz all good, dawg!  What would a normal person do in these circumstances?  Make fried rice with no eggs!  Or run to the store!  Ask a neighbor!  Viable options, all!

Except that the occasional unholy rage problem hath rendered me far from normal this day.  I have been barely clinging to ‘sane’ with two slippery fingertips.  So running out of eggs, insignificant and inconsequential as it may be?  In my head I ruptured a blood vessel, turned Hulk green (complete with tattered capri pants), and went thoroughly batshit.  Outwardly I turned off the stove, put the peas back in to the freezer, and informed my husband that the kids can eat dinner tomorrow.  Currently I am shut in my room, pecking away at my keyboard in a cathartic fashion.  (Why yes, I feel scads better now!) Do not panic Nanna, I’m sure Daddy is filling them with pizza or something, he is nice like that.  And maybe seeing my eyeballs glowing red will aid him in remembering to mention the next time he finishes the eggs. 


April 26, 2008. Uncategorized.

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