How To Cook Dinner Skippy Style

While a leeeetle ticked off.

I know. I know.  I should never post about being mad, but I received some sucky news yesterday and well. . .dinner was a preeeettty interesting gig last night.

Anyone who has a chronic condition or a terminal illness [count of hands?] will attest to the fact that finding one doctor or one nurse that you trust, who knows you and you love is the equivalent to getting that pony you asked for when you were 9 years old.

Good doctors and their great nurses are sometimes the only gifts of light at the end of a very long tunnel we're travelling.

Okay. Enough with the lame metaphors.

I have a primary care physician who knows every single.last.thing about me.  He coordinates all my treatments with other institutions, various hospitals and their teams of doctors. He refers me to the best of them and takes care of me.  He knows, understands and has memorized my history.  He is respected and has researched treatments that he knows are better for me or made suggestions to the *big boys* and is listened to when it comes to my care.  He is a very, very small fish in a huge pond, but he looks out for me.

He's fine. Still my doctor. [Thank you!]

The slap I got yesterday? 
His nurse.
My favorite young lady of all time in every medical situation I have ever experienced.  I have never met anyone like her.  I have known this kid [said like she is my own daughter] since she was a clerk at Rite Aid 8 years ago.  I have watched her grow up, graduate, get married and become an awesome nurse.

She is the one person who can approach me with a needle, a scale or a catheter and I don't flinch.  I offer up whatever is needed because I trust her.

Being sick and trying to get better is about trusting those that are taking care of you.

But?  MY Brenda?

Is leaving my doctor's practice on Friday.
It is her last day. 
She is moving to Georgia to support her husband while he finishes his degree there.

I may not cry from pain Tadpoles but I have to say I crawled under the covers and wept over that news.

I am a big girl. I understand. I get it.  Life moves on. Nothing is forever.

But? but? But. . . .I LOVE Brenda.

Onto to dinner.  It was a late shift kind of day for Steven and I wasn't. . .well, feeling it.  I had no designs on what to make and personally?  Whatever appetite I had went right out the window when I clicked on Brenda's email.

I did have to make dinner tho'.

I told the family dinner would be served at 10 pm.
Hey,  don't judge. It was late shift.
When your husband gets home at 8 pm, 10 pm IS an appropriate dinner time.

No?  Well, sorry Donna Reed. It is here. ::grinning::

I went into the kitchen at 9:30 and heated up a big pan of  oil. I sliced up a zucchini from the garden, tossed it into a pan with olive oil, diced garlic and onion and waited for the other pan of oil to heat up.

Usually when I fry foods - which is, admittedly, rare - I am careful to not splatter or toss it around too much because it becomes an ungodly mess of grease. Everywhere.

Do you think I cared last night? 

A resounding chorus of noes was just heard in the pond I do suspect.

When the heat got to temperature I grabbed a full bag of French fries and poured those suckers into the hot grease.

Snap, crackle and KA-boom. I had grease everywhere.  Meanwhile the pan of veggies was producing enough steam to propel the Titantic past that iceberg.

I had a mess going on and I just.did.not.care.

Once the fries were cooked I tossed them into the oven to keep warm and brought the oil back up to temp.

Now came the encore. 
Breaded shrimp.

Meanwhile I was caring less and less about the zucchini cooking itself into oblivion and making a mess on that side of the stove, so I just turned up the radio and waited for the oil to be hot.

Store bought, in a box, breaded shrimp is the red headed step child of the freezer burn world.  And you all know what those ice crystals do when you dump an entire box into 3 inches of hot oil, right?

I did.not.care.
Again.

[So not like me. . .but who was cleaning it up, me? Um, yes.]

The flour was on stand by. Just so y'know . . . .in case.

Those puppies went in with one toss of the box.

The grease shot into the air, hit the stove, the walls, the floor, plus it covered the entirety of the microwave and? 

I don't think there is a stain stick made that is going to get it out of the shirt I was wearing.

 [Again, not caring. It was Steven's. ::waving! Hi honey!:: Not sorry. You never wear it anyway.]

I ignored the grease that was an now oil slick over the entire kitchen [which, for the record, does not belong to me] and tossed the shrimp around until they were done.

I threw some paper plates on the table, grabbed the ketchup, plattered the vegetables, shrimp and fries while yelling to the family to come and get it.

They walked into the kitchen, took one look around, saw me and got busy serving themselves.

They aren't stupid. They knew.

I was done. HA!

Although I spent a good bit of time cleaning up that mess they did have the good grace to tell me it was delicious.

All in all?  It was completely worth it.

I think I'll do it exactly like that in the future. Only next time I will be in a happier mood.

Grease be damned.

Take care. Smile Loudly. Life IS a gift. xo Janine