the Blethering Spot

Just got back from a Lincoln Brewster concert. Never heard of him? Me neither, until tonight. This band seriously rocked the house.

My ears are ringing.
My deltoids are sore from raising my hands too long.
My feet are sore from stomping my feet too hard.
My palms are sore from clapping too loudly.

I am very, very lucky.

We just got back from a MercyMe concert. Oh, my.

They did a cover of a Tom Petty song (“Won’t Back Down”) and “Where the Streets Have No Name.” And lots more.

Hello.

I am very, very lucky.

Am sick today, with my habitual pre-exciting-trip ear infections. (WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME???) I sat in the doctor’s office this morning and realized, in a blinding flash of inspiration, that perhaps some really spicy chicken soup would help move things along. (I am, of course, a firm believer that spicy hot food chases away the devilish germs, perhaps by reminding them of the patiently waiting lake of fire.)

As I tottered home, clutching my white paper Shoppers Drug Mart prescription bag, I was seized by another blinding flash of inspiration: why not make Doro Wat, the Ethiopian chicken stew that I’ve been wanting to try? “Yo, BRING IT,” I thought to myself, in the manner of the hip person I clearly am not. Doro Wat? Hello. No harder than chicken soup, spicier, and infinitely more exciting. With great enthusiasm, I dragged my sorry hiney into the kitchen, stopping only to knock back a dose of antibiotics, and started seizing various spices from the cupboard.

Predictably, I had no Berbere, the Ethiopian spice mixture required in many of their dishes. (NOT to be confused with Beriberi. Clearly.) Undaunted, I carefully measured out towering piles of things like coriander seeds, cardamom, cumin seeds, peppercorns and cloves. Dubiously, I eyed the stated “4 to 6 Tbsp crushed red chilies,” but decided that once putting my hand to the spice grinder, I should not look back. Undaunted, I heated up my trusty cast iron frying pan, and, when it was nice and toasty, poured in the mixture. You know, the one containing peppercorns and 4 to 6 ridiculous tablespoons of crushed chilies. That one.

Reader, I could not even breathe. The fumes rising from this pan were noxious, killing. My lungs filled with microscopic bits of chilies and peppercorns, and I literally stopped breathing. The pain was immense. Gagging, I ran to the front door, threw it wide and drew in great gulps of air — all the while holding the smoking frying pan, carefully shaking continuously as instructed. (Because what a shame it would be to waste all those fab spices. Obviously.)

At that moment, the mail lady (who refrains from walking on my lawn) came trotting up the driveway with a lovely crisp box of Shaklee supplies. “Here you go!” she chirped, thrusting the box into my free hand. “Have a great day!”

“Khanks,” I choked, tears streaming down my face, my whole body convulsing with paroxysms, and unattractively jiggling along with the frying pan.

To make a long story short (too late!), my whole house is now filled with toxic fumes, and none of us can breathe — and I made the Berbere four hours ago. My 7 year old daughter is wandering around, eyes red and watering, with thick material tied around her nose and mouth.
“Come on,” I said bracingly. “It’s not that bad!”
“But I have young lungs,” she said, coughing.

Whoopsy.

I found this on another blog (I won’t link to it, as she’s possibly going private). If you’ve ever wanted to hear Bono preach, here you go:

Amen!

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, everybody. I seem to have lost my bloggy joy. I used to think, at odd interesting moments, “Oh, I’m totally blogging this;” now it just doesn’t occur to me. I have, though, sadly packed away my beloved Christmas template, and taken this old one out of the box, shaken it smartly, and put it back into use.

I think I’ve lost my bloggy joy because we are thinking of embarking upon a Huge New Something Else….

…something that’s still a secret….

…something very, very exciting, and scary, and in completely uncharted waters…..

Are you curious?

‘Cause every little thing is gonna be all right!”

Honey, have I ever had a fabulous holiday. Aside from listening to unhealthily high doses of Bob Marley (or perhaps because of it?), I have been trotting about happily at a hundred kms / hour, cooking, eating and generally being a fantastic person. Besides this, I have a lovely thing to tell you. Are you ready?

Guess where Mr Man and I are going at the end of January?

1. jail
2. hell
3. Cancun

If you chose #3, you are right! Horray! It will, in fact, be our honeymoon. When we stood there as absurdly young things and vowed to be eternally faithful, we had perhaps three dollars to our names. We currently have only slightly more than that, but we feel that it’s time to throw all caution to the winds, and enjoy ourselves. You may recall that we felt a similar feeling last year, and ended up taking the children along with us. Not so this time!

Childcare has been offered (thanks Mom!), time off has been arranged, posh resort has been booked. There remain only four things to do:

1. find something to wear that fits my sadly enlarged self
2. abandon muffin-top-causing, movement-restricting black pants and purchase new stretchy ones instead
3. think of smooth and savvy fundraising opportunities to fund trip
4. find a bottle of fake tan that doesn’t turn me orange, STAT. Any suggestions? Tamara?