Whoops! Looks like I missed the one-year anniversary of the creation of kategarklavs.com, my internet home. Sorry, internet home! I guess I’ll swing by Walgreen’s on the way home, select the least-shitty-looking Hallmark card and the least-crappy Whitman’s sampler there, and try to make it up to you. You forgive me thought, right? (Right?)
On to the subject of Domestic Terror, which is neither as exciting nor as terrible as that classification would have you believe! (Be real: Would you read about an incident described as a mild kitchen disturbance? If you would, you and I reside in the same camp.) Last night, Micah cooked me a beautiful dinner: pasta with chicken thighs sauteed in olive oil and butter; sauteed red and green peppers; near-caramelized onions; garlicky kale; ribbons of fresh basil; Pecorino Romano (I think?); and a lemon-caper sauce that also contained much butter. Micah is the best and no, he was not the source of Domestic Terror: I WAS.
You see, I have a difficult time 1) minding my own business; and 2) leaving well enough alone. Combine these two factors with my near-dearth of gross and fine motor skills and you’ve got a recipe for a perfect storm of disaster.
When Micah said he’d cook dinner for me, I immediately asked if I could help* and he said, “Nope!” And then I asked again, to which M responded, “I’ll let you know if I need any help.” And then he did need help with the draining of the pasta, and OH MAN, can you see where this is going? If you guessed The Burn Zone, you are correct. Yes, friends: I managed to spill boiling pasta water onto my leg (and Micah’s hand).
(Not taken last night, though last night’s dish did include garlic, as all reasonable dinners should.)
To be fair, I didn’t spill the water: We have a really shitty colander that doesn’t drain properly because it has too few holes that are also too small, and the boiling water welled up in the colander’s bowl and then overflowed and poured onto my leg/Micah’s hand. But! I was the one in charge of draining the pasta; this shit happened on my watch. I take full responsibility. Though that colander sucks.
I must extend kudos to myself and Micah for acting admirably in the face of physical peril. I did not drop the remainder of the boiling water; rather, I set the pot on the counter before unleashing a torrent of profanities and then grabbing an ice pack for my stunned leg.
The good news: Micah and I are totally fine. The less-good news: My leg is burned (mildly) and I might have a (mild) scar that approximates the shape of an upturned Tennessee. Guess I won’t be wearing all those miniskirts and 3″-inseamed shorts I was planning to wear. Bummer.
You know what? Dinner was totally delicious, despite this calamity. You know what else? Aloe with lidocaine heals most wounds.
*Which, what the hell is up with my inability to let my boyfriend cook for me? Answer: I am unquestionably (but hopefully not irredeemably?) Type A.