Cookie Cutter

Two weeks ago on a Saturday, it was super cold.  It was also the day I staged a major laundry offensive.  One of my new tricks for gathering the soiled clothing from various rooms in the house is sending the kids to retrieve it then telling them they can throw it down the stairs.  It's a blizzard of dirty underwear and pants flying through the air.  Needless to say, it makes the landing (which is right next to the front door) quite littered.

When the pile was at its max, someone rang the doorbell.  I waded through the mess and pulled open the door to find a bundled up mom and daughter.  They offered to sell me Girl Scout cookies.  While I was thrilled the cookies finally found their way to our house, I was shocked at the dedication of the vendors.  It was about 15 degrees out and windy.  As they stood in the snow on my front step, I wondered if I should invite them in.  Then I thought of their snowy boots standing on top of our underwear on top of my hardwood floors.  I left them outside to make their sales pitch.

I told them to give me two boxes of the Caramel DeLites (formerly Samoas) and two Thin Mints.  When the young lady pulled out the ex-Samoas, I was pleased with the instant service.  But then her mom told me they did not have any more Thin Mints in the bag, instead they would bring them to us on Monday.  I asked if I should pay now for the ex-Samoas; she said not to worry about it, I could pay for all of them on Monday.  I made some lame comment about cookies on credit while I added my name and address to her order sheet, right under Grandma C's.  Sometime during the exchange Marina came to stand next to me wearing her leotard (over sweatpants), dragging a pile of clothes under her feet.

After they left, I went directly to write a check for $16 and left it on the kitchen counter so I could be prepared for the return of the cookies.

All the next day I wondered aloud why the die-hard, weather-braving Girl Scout couldn't deliver my cookies on a Sunday.

After work Monday I kept watch even after dark (if she can come out in the snow, why not the dark?). Nothing.

Tuesday.  Wednesday.  Thursday.  On and on... neither the Girl Scout nor my Thin Mints ever made an appearance.  I have no idea where this girl lives.  We aren't the kind of people to get to know our neighbors, if she is indeed from the neighborhood.

I thought that she maybe she was waiting for another Saturday.  Nope.  Maybe her shipment of Thin Mints was held up by some striking UPS delivery man.

Two days ago, I came downstairs to find a purple scrap on the counter.  Mark had opened up the ex-Samoas.  I immediately scolded him for eating cookies that are not yet paid for.  They have been sitting on top of the refrigerator.  My conscience will not allow me to eat them.  Obviously Mark has no problem with this kind of thing.

Now I have to relate to you a different shocking story.  Last week, right after I got home from work, Mark told me to look in the garbage can.  He found something right by our driveway on his way in from getting the mail.  It seems the 40 mph wind gusts that day had blown some Vegas street smut all the way to our house.  He quickly disposed of it before one of our kids saw it.

Now, these may two completely unrelated stories.  Or it may be as Mark hypothesizes: What if the Girl Scout and her mother came back to our house only to find a nudey flyer sitting next to the walkway to our door?  They may have decided to cut their ex-Samoa losses and high-tail it out of there, taking our Thin Mints with them as they fled.

While I find this all to be rather implausible, the lingering doubt remains.  Where is the Girl Scout?  Where are my Thin Mints?  And why are all the neighbors giving us dirty looks?

Hot Potato

I just set the microwave on fire.

It's like a movie.  I just gave you the outcome, now I need to start from the beginning of the story and go through the details.

It all started several weeks ago when I made a vow to start cooking meals for my family so my kids would stop getting sick.  Don't get me wrong, they do get to eat, it's just usually something boxed or frozen.  Since the day of the vow, my grocery bills have suffered while I try to buy non-processed pieces I can build into real meals.  

Unfortunately, I'm awful at cooking.  I can't invent or produce the things normal people eat.  Last week,  I was walking through the produce section at my local big-box warehouse store when I passed the 10-pound bag of potatoes for $2.65.  That's a whole lot of meals for a very little price.  Now if only I could think of what to do with the millions of potatoes on my counter... (where do you store such a massive bag?)

Back to the microwave.  Fast forward to this evening.  I decided baked potatoes were just the elegant meal we needed.  Since I made this choice only 15 minutes before our normal eating time, I had to look up how to microwave the starch bombs.  Here is what a website told me to do:

Cook on full power in the microwave for 5 minutes. Turn over, and continue to cook for 5 more minutes. When the potato is soft, remove from the microwave, and cut in half lengthwise. Season with salt and pepper, and mash up the inside a little using a fork. Top the open sides with butter and 2 tablespoons of cheese. Return to the microwave, and cook for about 1 minute to melt the cheese.

What the instructions failed to mention is that at minute 7:42, the potato will ignite and smoke will pour out of your microwave door.  When an abnormal sound alerted me that something was amiss, I jumped off my chair and yelled, "It's on fire!  Mark, the microwave is on fire!"  (This is especially ironic since I was envisioning fire escape scenarios for my house on my way home from work today.  Yes, I'm crazy, but I'm usually prepared.)

I quickly stopped the microwave, opened the doors and windows, grabbed a cookie sheet and started fanning the billows of smoke.  Ever helpful Eli wanted to join the effort so I gave him a paper plate to fan along side me.  Meanwhile, Mark was keeping a close watch on the USA soccer game.  

I left the microwave door closed for an hour after, just in case latent fire was waiting to leap out and burn my face.

Here are the things we now know:

• Apparently I can't even operate the microwave with any level of success.
• We will not be eating baked potatoes for dinner.
• The smoke detector in the kitchen definitely does not work.
• Our house smells like Marlboro Reds.
• My hair and clothes smell like carcinogens. 

Here are some visual aids for you.

The moment I was finally able to stop the microwave.

Resting outside on the patio.  

Yum.

Once again, this kind of event reinforces why we never invite people over for dinner unless they happen to be family members who bring along their own food.

I should go get the burnt potato from out back before the skunk that lives under our concrete slab gets lung cancer from eating it.