Haute cuisine

This is what I'm cooking right now. Looks delicious, no? No? Wait, you really mean no? Yeah, I know. Another example of why I'm somewhat of a disaster. For some reason, despite my sickness (or perhaps because of the cabin fever it caused) I decided to go out after rehearsal. We were going to go to Food Dance but then wound up at Burdick's because it turns out Food Dance closes at 10:00. I think that's a stupid time for a restaurant to close, but I digress. When I arrived at Burdick's I wound up on the end of the table again right next to a window which I, of course, had to stare out of simply because it was there. Eventually I was promoted to the middle of the table so I could hear the conversations all around, but I still sat there like a lump. I blame the congestion.

I got home ready to jump into bed and settle down for the night with an episode of Dexter (which does seem to be my ritual this week) when I realized I'd forgotten completely about the potluck that I bought cocktail weenies for earlier this evening. Agitated by my previous lumpliness, my not getting to go to bed, and my not getting to watched Dexter, I sluffed back to the kitchen and got out my big pan and poured two pounds of weenie in it followed shortly by a large jar of mustard. It was not until this point, the point where the situation was un-undoable, that my common sense voice said, "Mary, why would you put those weenies in before the sauce was made. Weenies go in last. Everybody knows that." It was too late though, TOO LATE. So I just poured in the rest of the ingredients and there you have it. I'll take this moment to thank any of you smutty folk not to take my words about weenies out of context as would be wholly inappropriate as you know perfectly well that I am only talking about small hot dogs. Nevertheless, there it is, all in one big pan on the stove. I'm going to put it in the refrigerator tonight and then tomorrow take it to work in my crockpot which Mikka was lovely enough to give me for my birthday. Knowing me I won't be able to work it properly and potluck time will come and all the weenies will be stone cold. Or my crockpot will have exploded and there'll be weenie sauce all over the wall. (Yeah, yeah, I know, I make resisting the weenie jokes hard... that's what she said.) Well, I'm off to tend to my weenies. Stupid trying to be better about potlucks.