"How was your day, dear?....
That bad, huh?"
"I didn't find a job."
"You've only been gone six hours, Mimi."
"I know, but I was wearing my pencil skirt. It's a crushing blow to my ego."
"Where did you go?"
(I am blubbering.) "There was ONE teaching job in my field and it's gone. I want to jump off a bridge."
"Where else did you go?"
"The community college and a myriad of other administrative offices. And then I gave up on education altogether.'
"Mimi, you've only been gone six hours.
Where else did you go?"
"I went to Macy's. If they won't hire me as a teacher, at least the other thing I'm good at is pencil skirts. And matching jewelry. Stepped into the executive office to leave a resume. No one was home. I gently spoke. "Hello." I heard people talking, high heels shuffling, earring dangling. "Helloooo?" No one ever came to the desk.
I just left, Sweetie. I picked up a brochure and walked out."
Shoes are flung. Tissues are flying. Pantyhose are running. Smirnoff is pouring.
"Where else did you go?" asked boyfriend. (He's so persistent. Why does he have to be so interested in my day for heaven's sakes?)
I thought Dunkin' Donuts would be a nice stop. I wanted some tea."
Did I mention Smirnoff is pouring?
After forty-five minutes of sniffling and snarkling and whining and hissy-fitting, I finally got up from my brood and went into the kitchen. Maybe a little creativity will help. It was a bad idea. I wish someone had stopped me. It was not the ending I wanted to this depressing day.
The last time I "experimented" in the kitchen the food was unrecognizable, that is, after it was cooked by yours truly. Who knew mashed potatoes could be cooked three times when once was all they needed. Who knew?!
Stuffed porkloin tonight, pasta and strawberries. How hard could that be? Stuffing is stuffing is stuffing. A southern girl should be able to handle anything stuffed. I unwrap the lovely twin breasts (Is that the correct term for pork? Pork breast....pork breast....I think you just cook 'em like chicken breasts.) So I stuff it, flour it, pepper it, salt it, stuff it again and rub lots of olive oil on the lovely breasts. Who knew eroticism could be found in the kitchen? This is fun! I drank a half glass of chardonnay during the stuffing ceremony. Anyone who knows me knows this was almost a good idea.
Four-hundred fifty degrees for an hour and a half. That sounds about right. I'll have enough time to figure out how to tie the bows in the bowtie pasta.
Stumbling between the spice drawer and sink - which was now full of half-baked stuffing that I didn't like and threw out during my frolicking - I turned off the oven with a swish of my magic wand and voila! Stuffed porkloin.
I opened the door to see the results.
"How's dinner coming, Mimi?"
"Mimi?.....You've only been in there six hours."
After dinner, in the smokey light of burning rubber and poisonous fumes which permeated the ending to this romantic day, my boyfriend tried to make me feel better by making me laugh.
I hate it when he does that.
"The strawberries were the only saving grace. All you had to do was cut them.
If all you'd done was cut the pork we'd be eating it now and it could still be rescued."
I hate him.
"Look at the bright side, Mimi. We won't get salmonella, however, we can now carve our names on the bark of the pork."
I hate him!
It was time to make a graceful exit so I ran screaming from the room and there weren't even any lobsters involved.
"I did eat the cold pasta. It was good!" (Nice try, but too late.)
More screaming. More hissy-fitting.
"The ties were crooked and you know it!"
I remember once in a far-away marriage I was sitting across the table from hubby-dear who'd made a similar comment about my infamous cooking. Dinner ended with a plop of mashed potatoes square in the middle of his forehead.
And what did I learn from that memorable karma tonight as I sit in the twilight of burnt pork roast and a comedian for a boyfriend?
Note: See question #4 in his post today entitled Ghosts in the Kitchen.
He'll 'splain it.
Update: Can someone say over? Perhaps it was my cooking.