Lies, Damned Lies, and Statistics

What’s on my mind? 

“It is what it is”: US President Donald J. Trump, Aug. 4, 2020, on the rapid increase in the number and rate of coronavirus deaths. 

• April 28: 1 million cases. Trump’s same-day response: “It will go down to zero, ultimately.”

• June 10: 2 million cases. Trump’s same-day response: “We may have some embers or some ashes or we may have some flames coming, but we’ll put them out. We’ll stomp them out.”

• July 7: 3 million cases. Trump’s same-day response: “I think we are in a good place.”

• July 23: 4 million cases. Trump’s same-day response: “The country is in very good shape …”

(On August 7, one day before the updated figures were announced,  Trump hosted a party for members of his exclusive Bedminster, New Jersey golf club. There was no social distancing. Almost no one wore masks. During that party, he stated: “The pandemic is disappearing. It’s going to disappear.”

(Calling in the media for a press conference, the event became a spectacle, with members of his golf club booing what they viewed as unfriendly questions and cheering those they liked. A good time was presumably had by all. 

(Trump also attended two fundrasing events in the Hamptons, bringing in $15-to-$20 million US. How much of this was taxpayer-funded, I don’t know.)

• August 8: The US hits 5 million coronavirus cases.

As I post this August 9, at 8:35 pm PST, the real-time Johns Hopkins COVID-19 cases in the US have increased to slightly less than 5.2 million. Not quite 12 hours later, the US has nearly 2,500 new cases. 

© Nicole Parton, 2020

Diane Cuts Her Husband’s Hair

What’s on my mind? 

I went to bed with Himself and woke up with Little Lord Fauntleroy. Two weeks later, I went to bed with Little Lord Fauntleroy and woke up with Einstein. Two weeks after that, I went to bed with Einstein and woke up with a man whose hair was so long, I mistook him for a landing strip. 

Does no one get their hair cut, anymore? No, they do not. Why? You already know why.

Many years ago, when Himself was young and innocent (something I have never been), I begged him to let me cut his hair, promising: “Think of all the money we’ll save!”

We’d been wasting money on such fripperies as groceries and the electric bill, so I persuaded Himself it might be nice to have some moolah to call our own. I cinched this persuasive argument with the words: “Diane cuts her husband’s hair, and he always looks great!” (It’s a piffle, but - having never met the guy - I couldn’t pick Diane’s husband out of a lineup of one.)

Himself, vaguely aware of the name “Diane,” assumed she was one of my top 100 friends, 97 of whom are creditors. In fact, Diane is my friend, but she’s also my hair stylist. I didn’t mention that little detail when I got out the electric clippers. 

“Just a little off the top,” he said. (“And the sides and the back,” I thought.)

BZZZZZZZZZZZZT!!! BZZZZZZZZZZZZT!!! BZZZZZZZZZZZZT!!!

“Whazzat?” Himself is the suspicious type. As he should be. 

I immediately began laughing. I do that when I get nervous. After the clippers slipped, I was very, very nervous. 

Like magic, the giant hole the clippers ripped through his comb-over shone like a mirror. With no way to patch it, I tried to “even it out.” The hair curling softly above left his ear vanished. I had no choice but to do the same (BZZZZZT! BZZZZZT! BZZZZZT!) for the right. I was channeling Edward Scissorhands, now.

The slice at the back of his head (OMG, the ba-a-ack!!!) exposed bare skin as wavy hair and skin rose and fell, my nervous laughter creating a jagged Plimsoll line.

Trying to appear everything was routine, I yawned: “Wanna see it in the mirror?” Himself is the “No, thanks!” type. I figured this would buy me some time. 

“Damn well right, I want to see it!”

This was unexpected. I dropped the clippers and ran. Five years on, Himself still won’t let me cut his hair.

Our COVID lock-down means Diane and I haven’t seen one another in nearly six months.

You know in the movies, when a woman on the lam tries to disguise her appearance by cutting her own hair? Whether she uses cuticle scissors, pinking shears, a bread knife, or an electric hedge trimmer, the result always looks spectacular. Now that Diane’s AWOL, I’ve been using exactly those tools to cut my hair, and it always looks like ... (CENSORED! Children may be listening to you read-aloud types!)

I’ve quit trying to cut my hair. Long hair looks fine on me ... Fine! Okay ... Semi-fine. I’ve been wearing it in the bouncy ponytail the candles on my last birthday cake suggested I was too old to wear. Like 60 years, too old.

My hair’s almost always been short when I visit Diane. She goes snip-snip! and she’s done, so we chew the fat until her next client comes in: 

“Ya know, Diane, I’ve bin feelin’ kinda sluggish, lately ... D’ya think I could be ... irregular?”

“Ya know, Nicole, I take this stuff ever’ night, b’ fore bed, an’ I feel like a kid, again!”

I miss Diane. The next time we meet (2021? 2022?), that ponytail’s gonna be pretty long. When I ask Diane’s opinion, she’s either going to say: “Keep it!” or “Cut it!” according to what she guesses I really want to do. 

I look forward to that day. I’ll go away happy and Diane will be fondling a $50 bill and all will be right with the world.

© Nicole Parton, 2020

Home Invasion … Call 911!

What’s on my mind? My totally exciting life (yeah, right) includes the memory-go-round of déja vue. Which is why I’m returning to my topic of almost exactly a year ago, Dial M for Murder!

Opening a door - any door, pick one - leads to recriminations: 

“They got in through the garage! You left the door open!” 

“They came in because our house is dirty!” 

“The house wasn’t dirty until they arrived!”

Although every window in the house is screened, opening one prompts rightful concern. The youngest get past the screens by sneaking through the mesh. Once inside, they establish base camp. Their forces growing by the hour, they copulate at night. 

As you will by now have guessed: A battalion of flies has invaded our house. As I wrote a couple of days ago, my Delicate Feminine Instincts permit me to avoid the horrors of the battlefield. I can’t claim to be a conscientious objector on the fly front (“Kill ’im! Kill ’him! Kill ’im!”), but can truthfully say I find the job so distasteful (review Delicate Feminine Instincts) that if it weren’t for Himself, I’d have to hire professional assassins in hazmat suits.

I once saw the “flies in the attic/hazmat suit” technique of fly eradication (“We’re going in …!”). I couldn’t watch as flies were gassed by the thousands in the attic of a house my late husband and I once owned. ’Nuff said.

Earlier this week, I spied an unusual spot of sheen on the dining room table. Looking closer, I began to hyperventilate. Two small, still flies - one of whose iridescent wings fanned over the other’s body - appeared to have been in “the act” when they “passed.” 

(Passed what? Muster? Gas? Go? I hate that euphemism. Why can’t we say they died?) 

Naturally, I did what any mature, competent woman would do on finding two flies stuck together in flagrante delicto on the dining room table: Screamed bloody murder. Whereupon Himself ran into the room, tissue in hand, and “dealt” with the corpses. Translation: Ran outside to feed them to the fish. 

The eight other methods of killing flies are:

1. The “dish towel” technique (Himself: “Don’t use that towel for anything.” Me: “Do you think I’d actually use that towel???? I want to burn that towel!”)

2. The “electronic zapper” technique (“It’s 10,000 volts. Baby, you’re gonna fry …”) 

3. The “closed-door” technique (“He can’t escape! I’ve got him trapped …”) 

4. The “poisonous fly spray” technique (“I can’t! I can’t! The environment …”)  

5. The “drinking glass” technique (“He’ll suffocate and die!)

6. The “finger squeezing” technique (“I think I got the little bastard…” Gross. You don’t want to know about the “finger squeezing” technique.”)

7. The “emergency exit” technique (Himself: “Guess what? I opened the door and a fly flew out!” Me: “Guess what? You opened the door and three more flew in!”)

8. And, if all else fails, the “Bates Motel” technique. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0WtDmbr9xyY&t=72s

Flies are disgusting. They live on a diet of …

(Hey, boys and girls! It’s time for our Question of the Day! Do you know what this disguised four-letter word is? Hint: It has two “o’s” and two “p’s” and flies think it’s yummy!) 

© Nicole Parton, 2020

The Diet of Worms

What’s on my mind? This is the story of two goldfish, a thunderstorm, and the Diet of Worms - a 500-year-old double entendre that only nerds will get. Nonetheless, this really is about the (lower-case) diet of worms.

Two goldfish entered our lives in the Summer of 2019, thanks to three years of nagging dramatic sighing on my part. Goldfish need a home, and so my long-held dream of a garden pond came to fruition. I promised Himself the pond would cost next-to-nothing, but I’ve never been much good at calculus and abacus and stuff like that so I was off a couple of digits. 

A-ny-hoo, after two garden guys dug, graveled, leveled, lined, rocked, waterfalled, rocked some more, and planted, the pond came in at $3,100 and change. Maybe a couple of hundred dollars in change, but it’s only money, I cheerfully told someone who threatened to moi-duh someone else whose names I’ve repressed. These goldfish are now worth their weight in ... well, gold.

Garden pond goldfish are almost maintenance-free. The woman who ran the watering hole where I bought the fish said: “People who feed pond fish do it for themselves, not the fish. Throw them a Cheerio now and then if you feel like it, but you don’t need to.” So we didn’t. 

A brilliant example of smart marketing: Pets that don’t need feeding (in an outdoor pond, at least).

We named our goldfish Big Fish and Little Fish, mainly because they were. They thrived on mosquito larvae, slime, bacteria, and whatever other other gunk accumulated in the pond. That was last year. This year, everything changed. 

Not knowing the sex of our fish, I read a post on the Mating Habits of Goldfish, hoped for the best, and got it. This past Spring, gelatinous eggs glistened on the underside of the lily pads in our pond, exactly as the Mating Habits of Goldfish post said would happen if a fertile male and a fertile female goldfish became friends with benefits. 

Both fish paid special attention to these eggs, even assuming a vertical position in their eagerness to lap-lap-lap them. I hadn’t progressed far enough into the Mating Habits of Goldfish post to know Big Fish and Little Fish were happily eating their young - not kissing them, as I’d assumed. In the unlikely chance an infant survived egg-hood, its parents’ fishy instincts would again kick in, programming them to eat any fish younger than two weeks. 

After dabbling in cannibalism, the (presumably) remorseful and grieving Big Fish retired to her/his hiding place in the pond, while Little Fish circled the now-lonely waters on her/his own. I think the Mating Habits of Goldfish post had something in there about the Sexual Identification of boy goldfish, girl goldfish, and gefilte fish, but it was too racy for me and I ignored it. Watching Little Fish do the butterfly stroke, we saw she’d grown at least an inch since Winter, so we renamed her/him Semi-Big Fish.

Big Fish stayed in her/his hiding place two long weeks. I worried s/he might be depressed, or worse, might be holding out for another taste of car-r-rne! I also worried s/he might have lost her/his taste for pond gunk and Cheerios. 

Against my Delicate Feminine Instincts, I spaded the garden for a fat, juicy worm. Dropping it into the water, I watched it drift to the bottom of the pond. 

Having never seen such a thing before, Semi-Big Fish lazed toward the worm, upon which Big Fish rocketed from her/his hiding place to snatch the worm and race ’round the pond, the doomed worm trailing from her/his jaws like a streamer, with Semi-Big Fish in cold-blooded pursuit.

“Himself! Come! Come now!” I screamed. (Mrs. H, our neighbor across the way, dropped her dandelion puller and immediately snapped to attention. She, for sure, would have read the racy bits in the Sexual Identification of Fish post.) 

Pedal to the metal, Semi-Big Fish chased Big Fish ’round the pond, but the worm was almost gone. “Gimme a worm! More! More! More!” I  cried. 

(Head tossed back, a light sheen of sweat shone on the eavesdropping Mrs. H's smiling face).

Himself dropped four worms into the pond: Muscling Semi-Big Fish out of the way, Big Fish scored three. Over time, we denuded the garden of worms. “Not good for the soil,” Himself muttered.

“I don’t care about the soil! Our fish are starving!” (The post about the Mating Habits of Goldfish and the Sexual Identification of Fish also had a section on the Feeding Habits of Goldfish. It was there I learned goldfish are gluttons. They’d eat a schnitzel, if they could.)

Over time and a steady diet of worms, we noticed Semi-Big Fish had grown even longer over the past few weeks. Both s/he and Big Fish were becoming heavy weights in the Goldfish Dep’t. How big is big? Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to dunk my arm in that pond. We’ve now renamed them Very Big Fish #1 and Very Big Fish #2. 

Our frantic search for worms has left the garden looking like it’s been savaged by moles. We don’t care. Last night brought a thunderstorm, followed by heavy rain - a godsend! In an effort to escape drowning, about a million worms wriggled onto the driveway and the road. 

Himself scooped up as many as he could: They were about to meet their Waterloo. 

Pavlov, take a bow: Very Big Fish #1 and Very Big Fish #2 now circle at the precise moment Himself bends over the pond, a worm in his fingers. Even after they’re stuffed full of worms, they want more, more, more! (Which would definitely have interested Mrs. H, had she not gone to take a cold shower.)

We’re exhausted. Very Big Fish #1 and Very Big Fish #2 are still growing. They now control our lives. I vaguely wonder if they’d fancy a chunk of pot roast. It’s probably time to rename them, again. We’re leaning to Moby Dick.

© Nicole Parton, 2020

Donuts, Dilly Dogs, and Despair

What’s on my mind? A very nice woman on Twitter just wrote: “You know what I need tonight? Mini donuts.”

I could go for some mini-donuts, myself. It wasn’t her comment, but the 88 “likes” and many (unedited) replies it received. Among them:

“Are these, like, gourmet/indie mini-donuts or the ever accessible Tim Bits kind?”

“Like Fair donuts, the tiny, soft, deep fried ones that dissolve in your face. There's a little place near me that serves them all summer!” 

“every night” 

“I’m going to bookmark this so I don’t forget!”

“My favorite mini donuts are the ones with powdered sugar. I can eat so many of them it’s scary”

“They just disappear into my face!”

“Are you sure you’re not thinking too small?”

“I'm quite sure I'm thinking just right.”

“I may or may not be on my way to a donut shop based on this tweet.”

(Reader posts photo of glazed donuts)

“This is true EVERY night..”

“And now you have me obsessing over fair food... elephant ears, dairy barn ice cream and dilly dogs!”

(Reader posts photo of dilly dogs - a mustard-drizzled bun stuffed with a hollowed-out dill pickle stuffed with a wiener)

“Dipped in chocolate? Powdered sugar? Sprinkles? Oh god…” 

“Cinnamon sugar.”

“I actually just bought some a little bit ago! Hit the spot!”

“I bought donuts (not minis) today!”

“that sounds... incredible. and now I want some too”

“I need many”

(Reader posts GIF of woman about to eat a full plate of food.)

 (Reader posts GIF of sugared, glazed, o-ring cereal falling in slow motion.)

“Yessssssssss”

“YES”

(Reader posts GIF of cartoon cat, resting on a pillow at the foot of a cake-laden conveyor belt, with endless iced cakes falling into the cat’s open mouth.)

“Agreed”

As I write this on Saturday, July 18 at 6:55 pm PDT, Johns Hopkins University reports there are now 14,422,091 coronavirus cases, worldwide. Of that number, 5,206,074 are in mild condition; 59,910 are in serious or critical condition.

There have now been 604,818 deaths from COVID-19. Small children now have the virus. Eleven days ago, vice-president Mike Pence declared: “We are in a good place.” 

Two hours ago, the Washington Post reported that the Trump administration is attempting to block a relief bill that would fund testing, contact tracing, and the Centers for Disease Control. 

And so we seek refuge in donuts. We are not ourselves. Or maybe, we’re too much like ourselves. 

Terrified of the crazed demagogue who is the President of the United States; overcome by grief and worry for the sick, dying, and dead, we say a fast prayer for exhausted essential care workers while seeking a momentary reprieve with a donut in one hand and a dilly dog in the other. 

© Nicole Parton, 2020

Canada Day: Celebrating “Nice”

What’s on my mind? It is in the nature of Canadians to be meek and self-effacing. Just look at the colors of vehicles Canadians drive! An official survey* of cars, SUVs, and pickups swishing past on a major Canadian highway, 8,406 vehicles were identified as fawn, taupe, oatmeal, cream, beige, écru, tawny, biscuit, grey, off-white, and (screaming ambulance ... doesn’t count) white.

* Methodology: Browsing through Canadian muscle-car mags, combing car lots, staring at parked cars, zooming along the highway, inventing stats …

Divergents from the norm? One car was teal, another, blue. WHOA! Scientific psychological profiling suggests their drivers are the rebellious, “out there,” pot-smoking type, typically basking naked in mountainside Vancouver hot tubs. 

My pencil broke midway through the survey, so I wasn’t (vroom-vroom!) fast enough to add summer’s muscular black motorcycles to the count, but my best guess is that there were there were 548, give or take 373.  

A few drivers (perhaps of the gangster persuasion) flashed past in shiny black Cadillac SUVs, (the better to stash the body in, my dear …) but they’re an aberration. (Who washes those cars every day? These guys probably have underlings named Rocco or Carmine do it: “I’m on it, Boss!”). 

The SUV tough guys and motorcyclist maniacs aren’t “typical.” Most of the cars, pickups, and SUVs on Canadian roads look as pleasantly staid as their kind-hearted owners. 

Travel to the States and you’ll find audacious, brazen vehicles in candy-apple red, lacquered lime, jazzed-up purple (“I never saw a purple cow … I never hope to see one …”) and don’t-mess-with-me orange (reading this, Tom?). As much as I love Americans, I haven’t visited the US since the Madman of the South took power, and won’t until he’s gone.   

I am Canadian. I chose my citizenship; I wasn’t to the manner born. As a Canadian who arrived as a toddler and committed to citizenship as an adult, I am neither meek nor self-effacing. I am brash, loud, and sometimes sharp-tongued. I occasionally roil around kicking my legs, screaming: “Hah-hah-hah-harrrghhh!” which is not typically “Canadian.” 

The typical Canadian is kind; reaches for a hankie instead of a gun; considers family, friends, and neighbors; gives before taking; empathizes with those who suffer. Canadians help - even when those helped are nameless, faceless, sexless strangers of unknown ethnicity in countries never visited. Canadians do this because such traits are embedded in our DNA and in our tax system. 

“I’ve never met a Canadian I didn’t like.” If only that were so. But the mean and the selfish and the cruel and the racist are the minority. 

I think it fair to say most Canadians are “nice” - but we could be nicer. We all need to better understand and respect those who differ from us through heritage, language, ethnicity, sexual preference, and viewpoints, just as they, in turn, need to understand and respect us.

That is who we are and must aspire to be, in this place and dream we call Canada, all of us sharing rights and freedoms under the law.

On this Canada Day, just as we celebrate Canada and Canadians, we also celebrate the opportunities this country offers those who are honest and good-hearted; those who seek refuge; those who desire to make Canada even better, just as they hope to make the world a better place.

Today, we celebrate Canadians’ “niceness.” It’s a helluva place to live, this place I chose. And yes, I drive a cream-colored car.

© Nicole Parton, 2020

The Theory of Appetizers

What’s on my mind? Timing is everything. My personal exquisite timing meant buying 10 (count ’em, 10!) five-piece place settings of china with every accessory anyone, anywhere in the world, could ever imagine. My timing was exquisite because this truckload of china landed on my doorstep five minutes before we heard the world was in the grip of a pandemic. 

Once in a lonely while, I’ll remove a plate, or one of several serving platters, or the matching water jug, or the 10 appy servers I also bought, admiring and replacing them in the china cabinet, unused. And here we are today, months later, still on lock-down and still cautious, looking like bank robbers on the lam in our masks. 

So here’s some self promotion. I also write a recipe blog. I borrowed from it a couple of days ago, in my post about Linda W.’s Daughter’s Miso Chicken Recipe. So now I’m borrowing again, from a post that appeared four years ago, almost exactly to the day. 

Why? It’s a fun piece. Canada Day and the Fourth of July will soon be upon us. If for no other reason, let this post serve as a reminder of better days to come - days when guests will grace our doorsteps, days when life will return to a semblance of normal, days when I can use my new china. Here’s the post from Nicole Parton’s Favorite Recipes. https://nicoleparton.blogspot.com

A friend of a friend in Washington, DC, where some pret-ty fan-cy par-tays take place, sends along The Theory of Appetizers, which she very cleverly happens to have invented. The friend of a friend is Rebecca Scott, formerly the special events manager of the Folger Shakespeare Library on Capitol Hill. I’m indebted to Rebecca for this succinct and clever summary of all you need to dazzle the masses with a tasty array of appetizers.

A thing on a stick. A thing on a thing. A thing in a ball.

Translation?

A thing on a stick: Examples? Thai Chicken Skewers with Peanut Sauce or Chorizo-Bacon Bites or any thing that connects to any other thing with a skewer or a toothpick. 

A thing on a thing: Examples? Cheese-Stuffed Apricot Bites or Cucumber Shrimp  or Smoked Oysters in Tomato Cases.

A thing in a ball: Examples? Ball-shaped things such as the too, too delicious Basilica Torta or Brie en Croûte.

And that, folks, is all you really need to take you through a summer of potlucks and barbecues and Washington, DC, par-tays. When a potluck, barbecue, or par-tay comes your way, you will be ready! 

Appetizers: How Much and How Many Per-Person? 

If you’re having an early meal, expect guests to eat four or five. If the meal’s going to be late, count on six or seven. If you’re not serving a meal, your guests will consume eight or nine appys, on average. 

© Nicole Parton, 2020 (from a piece by Rebecca Scott, Washington, DC)

Insensitivity ... or Ingrained Racist Bias?

What’s on my mind? We were walking hand-in-hand when I spotted a handsome young couple. She was filming him as he spoke into the camera. Then she talked into the camera, filming herself. They were Chinese. 

I don’t understand Chinese, but guessed they were tourists - an assumption I made only on the basis of their ethnicity and the fact that she was filming him and herself.

I did what I always do when I see tourists - smile and be friendly. “Would you like me to take a picture of both of you?”

Himself squeezed my hand - hard. A warning. I wanted him to stop. I squeezed his hand even harder.

The couple looked up and smiled back. 

“No, thanks!” she said. 

“Happy to do it …” I offered again.

Himself tightened his grip. “COVID!” he said, within their hearing.

“COVID!” I shouted. For a moment, she stopped smiling. 

Walking on, I suddenly felt intensely awkward. What if they thought I meant …?  I turned to face them. Because we’d walked on a little, I had to shout.

“Not COVID because of you! COVID because of everyone! It’s everywhere!” She smiled. He didn’t. I’m not sure he spoke English. Another assumption.

And then, to be extra friendly, I shouted: “Welcome to Canada!” 

Himself gasped. “That sounds racist! They could be Canadian!”

Would I have said that to a white-skinned couple? Probably not. Deeply embarrassed, I turned again, shouting: “I didn’t mean ‘Welcome to Canada!’ I meant …”

With a little shrug, she smiled again. “It’s okay …” she said.

Knowing we were out of earshot, Himself said: “How could you have said that? You’ve made it worse!” 

And I had. Insensitivity? Racism? If so, it was unintended. 

Words matter. I need to remember that, as do we all.

© Nicole Parton, 2020

Linda W.’s Daughter’s Miso Chicken Recipe

What’s on my mind? My friend, Linda Walkem, would be embarrassed if I revealed her full name as the source of this recipe, so I’ll refer to Linda Walkem only as Linda W. to preserve Linda Walkem’s anonymity. 

Five or six years ago, my friend Linda W. gave me her daughter’s Miso Chicken recipe. I wanted to make this dish right away because Linda W. has always said her daughter’s a great cook. Naturally, I lost Linda W.’s daughter’s Miso Chicken recipe almost immediately, and forgot to tell Linda W.

Five or six years is a long time. I seem to recall that Linda W.’s daughter’s Miso Chicken recipe was “paleo.” I’d always assumed paleo was a game Prince Charles and his pals played on horseback, but Google set me straight: 

“A paleo diet is a dietary plan based on foods similar to what might have been eaten during the Paleolithic era, which dates from approximately 2.5 million to 10,000 years ago.”  

Some of the food in my fridge is definitely that old, so this recipe probably qualifies. Hurray, because Linda W.’s daughter’s Miso Chicken recipe recently resurfaced in my sock drawer.

This recipe requires a large whole fryer or roasting chicken, some miso paste, puréed peaches, and applesauce. 

How difficult can that be? Still, I fretted about the recipe’s instructions to broil the chicken until slightly browned; transfer it to a slow cooker for three hours on “low”; and then leave it in the slow cooker for two more hours on “warm.”

Let’s just say visions of pathogens danced in my head. Forget the broiler: Leaving the chicken on “low” for three hours and two more hours on “warm”?  I was nervous. 

I asked my friend Lorna’s opinion, but she hadn’t used her slow cooker in awhile. Lorna asked her daughter, Arlette, who’s never cooked a roasting chicken and didn’t know, either. 

Linda W. didn’t know, and asked her daughter, who didn’t answer. So Linda W. sent her daughter a second email. Linda W. cc’d me on that email, headed “Miso Soup.” 

“SOUP??? This is a chicken recipe!” I emailed Linda W. 

Snapped Linda W. back: “What chicken?” 

I was now very nervous. I’d bought the peaches and the applesauce and the miso, and had a honking big roasting chicken dripping salmonella all over the kitchen counter. Linda W. and Linda W.’s daughter said they’d never heard of Miso Chicken. More to the point, they said they’d never cooked it. 

Linda W. and Linda W.’s daughter knew nuthin’ ’bout nuthin’. This was not encouraging.

Whimpering, I set out to make Miso Chicken on my own. Things did not go well. 

• Chicken spits and crackles under broiler.

• Smoke detector starts screaming. 

• I start screaming. 

• Run for ladder. 

• Cancel alarm on smoke detector. 

• Stash ladder in cupboard.

• Race to remove chicken from oven. 

• Smoke detector renews screaming. 

• Instantly forget chicken. 

• Grab ladder. 

• Disconnect alarm. 

• Portion of smoke detector crashes to ground. 

• Ladder collapses. 

• Ladder crashes to ground.

• I crash to ground. 

• Limp into kitchen. 

• Chicken burning with enthusiasm.

• Extract chicken from oven. 

• Curse Linda W.’s daughter’s Miso Chicken recipe. 

• Curse pathogens.

• Bake chicken in regular oven.

“New recipe?” asks Himself.

“Shad-dup,” I say.

© Nicole Parton, 2020