My New Sous Chef

Daughter has a job. I hate Daughter's job. Not the job exactly, the fact that she even has a job. I am used to her being here to help me when she wasn't in class.

Now, I have hired a housekeeper. 

Now, I have to have someone else help me in the kitchen.

Enter Husband.

Sigh.

He is my new Sous Chef, I explained. He said, "Huh?"

I said, okay, you are my  new helper. He said, "Oh." None too enthusiastically, I might add.

So, today was spaghetti and salad day. Now, I have to concentrate when I am making my sauce. So I assigned Sous Chef to making a salad.

The first time he's ever made a salad, he tells me.

The man is sixty-six years old.

But I believe him: ("Do I peel the radishes?")

At any rate, he made his first salad, I got the sauce to taste reasonably well and we ate.

The aftermath, the clean up, was difficult.

It looked like two rabbits had been in a vicious fight in the middle of the vegetable garden on the island. And the stove looked like mass murder had occurred where the sauce had popped here and there while it simmered.

But we got it cleaned up, just in time to be hungry again.

I'm too old for this.

Brotherly Love

I just got back from visiting Brother of Many Surgeries. (This is his Indian  name now.)

He looks like a one track railroad from stern to down below where he wouldn't let me see. Let's just say they cut him as fer as they could cut.

The staples are starting to pull at his skin, the drain holes are pulling at his skin. He is very uncomfortable.

Plus he is having wild body temperature changes, one minute burning up, the next freezing.

Do you suppose they took so much out this time he is in  menopause? 

Nah.

I am being silly because I am tired of being afraid.

Afraid that this time, he might not make it.

But he did, and I hope fervently it is the last surgery he ever has to have. I hope he can live many years and be healthy, finally.

I am so confident I made a batch of spaghetti and took it to them for supper.

If my cookin' don't kill him, nothin' will.