Cat. Chicken. Fail.

Since I have three children and only two nerves, I gave away all of my animals. I get the yippi-ya-yays every time I think about how I DON’T have to tromp out in the blistering cold or the Niagra Falls to feed rabbits. How I don’t have to chase down random “gifts” that Cat-Cat ran into my house with before KILLING them completely. Ugh… really glad about that one.

Now there is ANOTHER orange cat that just WALKED into my house. I do not know WHO is breeding the orange cats, but they need to A). SPADE the dang thangs or B). Keep them on THEIR property. Because they just show up at my house, and apparently no one in my family knows how to shut a dang door and Wa-La- I’m just minding my own business reading a recipe at the stove trying to decide what in the HECK white pepper is and if I leave it out (along with the other 6 spices I’ve never heard of) will it affect the taste of my chicken when my leg gets wrapped up in a fuzzy tail that is about a foot longer than a normal cat tail. I’m sure I’m being attacked by a mutated rat-snake combo and me stomping the cat is making it go ballistic and then I’m no longer imagining being attacked. And I can’t cook anyway- so giving me a heart attack while I cook is only going to condition me to have MORE anxiety at the thought of making dinner. I learned it in my psychology classes at Southern. Now when I think of cooking chicken I’m going to imagine the chicken coming back to life and pecking me to death. And I get stressed enough looking at chicken’s dead frozen pieces in a bag.

I posted the cat on Craig’s List and someone is coming to get it tomorrow. And then me and my chicken can cook in peace. Kind of. Starling told me there has to be a way for me to cook chicken without smoking up the entire house. I informed HIM that he is more than WELCOME to cook the chicken. I followed the recipe exactly. (Accept for putting half the ingredients). And it tasted like CRAP. Very SPICEY crap.  So I’m trashing that recipe. I am STILL coughing from dinner. I swear the red spice- Paprika or the other red one- whichever spice tastes like FIRE- is wedged into my nasal cavity. Poor Brooklyn. I told her she had to eat 3 pieces of chicken, three bites of rice, and three bites of green beans. She took a bite of the chicken, started coughing, her eyes started watering… I could barely make out- “Choc-lit MILK!” So then I tried it. I had the same reaction. And Starling wasn’t home when dinner was ready to eat. I just left his plate made for him on the stove. I didn’t warn him. Figured it was a nice little surprise for being two hours late for dinner. He told me, “It was pretty good.” I said, “I didn’t care for the chicken.” (UNDERSTATEMENT of the century). THEN he very GENTLY tiptoed around the wording, “It wasn’t my FAVORITE thing you’ve ever cooked…” and winced to see if I slapped him or just started the silent treatment. I was too tired to do either.

I really hate meat. Well. When I’ve cooked it. I could take the easy way out and just go vegetarian. I can put lettuce on a plate like no-body’s business. AND cut a carrot.