I am married to a wonderfully eccentric man, close your eyes and imagine Latka from "Taxi" with the IQ of "Frasier" and the food choices of "Elf". Now that you are utterly confused (and amused that it's me and not YOU that's married to him), let me share with you a day in the life of me, the paper diva, married to a Mensa member software guru from Eastern Europe.
|Actual picture from our wedding...despite having purchased "nice" socks, he chose to wear the more sensible WHITE gym socks! I love him....quirks and all|
About a month ago, my beloved came home beaming. You would have thought he had just been awarded the medal of honor. I looked at the bags and realized he had been to his (not mine) favorite store. That big box store that pushes out all the mom and pop joints in small towns across America. From his bags, he proudly pulled out a Fry Daddy. "Look what I got for us, now we won't need to go buy french fries anymore" was how he introduced this awful, never meant for home use, device.
Our first foray into the world of fried foods went against everything I believe to hold true - food should not be saturated in fat and make your house smell like a diner. I hesitantly agree to help with this french fry fiasco. To my chagrin, it went without a hitch, other than the Rosie's Diner smell, which dissipated after opening all the windows in our home. Not too bad, "Sure", I agree, "We could do this again".
Well "again" happened to be the following Sunday. Fry Daddy sitting on the counter with a 5 gallon "bottle" (if you can call it that) of peanut oil waiting next to it. We were now one of the elite white trash couples who go to the store to purchase baby formula, Cheetos and BIG containers of oil...all we need to do to complete the look is the wife beaters and for me to be braless...but I digress. Back to our fiasco at hand.
I was not really loving the idea of smelling up our house again so soon, but since I was outnumbered, I decided to help. I placed the first basket of fries in and finished getting the salad and hamburgers ready. No big deal. But then Jack (19 months) started crying, he was starving and I wasn't about to give him a freshly fried potato. That's when my husband decided he'd help. We got Jack settled with some string cheese and all was right in the world....until I was being shoved out of the kitchen with an "Oh Baby, get out, get out". That was about the same time I felt grease splatted on the back of my legs.
My husband had thrust the next basket of fries into the oil too quickly....the oil had boiled over (thank goodness Jack was no where near) and gone ALL over the kitchen. I was furious...this was exactly why I hated that thing. I knew no good could come from frying foods, the FDA should have THAT warning! It took my wonderfully quirky husband three hours to clean the kitchen - he had to pull the stove from the wall and clean the side of the cupboards, the floors, the fronts of the cupboards. It was awful.
We laugh about it now, because I don't think I had been that angry in a long time - at least angry at a stupid appliance.
Did we learn from that experience? Oh no....just wait for Part 2. Potatoes, blood and some very burned fries!