It's Monday! Five more days til the weekend!
Do you ever have a foreboding feeling? You know, that feeling where you're sure if you spent the time to wash a potato, wrap it in tin foil, and bake it for an hour, you'd just end up pouring an entire bottle of pepper on it?
(Okay, I'm not saying it was any act of culinary mastery making the potato or anything, but still... that's the most cooking I'll ever do in a year. So what may seem like a simple baked potato is really like everyone else's Thanksgiving dinner.)
I was so mad. My first instinct was to blame someone. I accused Sam of leaving the pepper container facing the wrong way, so I had no choice but to open the "pour" side instead of the "sprinkle" side.
He said that's like blaming him for the history of violence in the Middle East, to which I responded by saying that his comparison was as ridiculous as blaming me for Eve's Original Sin. This is basically the pattern for all of our fights.
But if we've learned anything from Washington politics, it's that nobody likes a cry baby. We all have our "peppery potatoes" to deal with. Mine just happens to be an actual peppery potato.
The question is, what are you prepared to do about it? I plan to deal with mine the "Chicago Way".
My potato made me sneeze. Not only that, I had to find something else to eat. I practically ended up in the hospital.
So, I sent one of his to the morgue. My target was the tater-tot, part of the potato family. (Truth be told, the tater tots had been sitting in my freezer for over two years, so I didn't feel any Catholic guilt over throwing the bag away).
How was your weekend? Did you have any peppery potatoes to put out? Did you bring a knife to a gunfight?