Old Dog, New Trick

I think we can give up on the Level Two Clean Up project for this week. It aint happening. Which is probably better for you since you don't really want to hear the detailed play-by-play of me vacuuming rugs, right?

I picked up Sunny from the vet yesterday, and she doesn't look too good. If I could find her, I'd take a picture of her butt for you, but I can't, and you are, again, spared. I am assured by the vet that, even though she looks like she got shot in the but-tock with a hunting rifle, she is fine, she's healing well, and she can go outside and reclaim her rightful place as benevolent queen of the neighborhood. I decided, though, in a fit of concern and guilt because it was I who, years ago, booted her ass out of the house in the first place, that I would try to keep her inside as much as possible. I spread out an old blanket on the bed, and I brought her in her cat carrier into the bedroom, thinking she would slink out, tired and slothlike, and curl up for the rest of the day. Nope. The minute I opened the carrier, she was out and yowling at the front door. (The dog, on the other hand, got into the cat carrier and wouldn't come out, so I closed the door and carried him out of the bedroom in it.)

I had prepared for this eventuality, and I was determined that I would not give in to her wails and moans, and I was going to keep her inside if it killed us both. This lasted about a half an hour. With the already annoyed, bald-butted cat, and the dog, and now the other cat coming out of hiding to see what was going on, it was like a Blood, a Crip, and a Latin King in a cage match with only their fingernails as weapons. There was barking, hissing, growling, hiding, jumping whining, whimpering, and finally I couldn't take it anymore. So long, Sunny!

She slept on her bed on the front porch last night, and before I went to bed I gave her lots of loves and tried to get her to come inside. Nope. Oh well. I tried. For a whole half hour.

Here's a whole other thing: For years, possibly even decades, or however long I have been making tacos, it has plagued me that, when browning ground meet in a pan, I cannot get it really crumbly like they do in restaurants and on TV commercials. I would try with a fork to get it as crumbly as possible, and my wrist would be killing me, and fat would be splattering up into my face, and I swear I have eaten fewer tacos in my life because of this, and that is a real shame. So, the other night, I'm watching Diners, Drive-ins and Dives on the food network, and the dude is at some whatever restaurant, and the chef is going to brown ground meet for some sauce. A potato masher. A POTATO MASHER! I almost leapt out of my seat! So this morning I am making my famous (not really) pasta sauce for dinner tonight, and I get out my potato masher for the italian sausage and it is a revelation! A poem! Its like the best day of my life! Do you even know how often I'm going to make tacos, now? I know I'm way too excited about this, but I can't help it. Its the little things. Huh. Potato masher. Who knew?

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