Flavor
You know how I’ve always said nothing grosses me out, like, EVER? Well, then! We have found the secret weapon of UTTER GROSSNESS. And it’s … ground chicken. Benign, right? GROUND CHICKEN! Big deal.
A-HO! Since Sam’s favorite food is chicken mixed with apples and none of the organic brands have any a) chicken & apples together; or b) lone chicken jars to mix with apples, I’ve been doing a fair amount of ridiculous HANDWRINGING over the non-organic, mass-produced CREEPY OF THE CREEP chicken that my daughter was ingesting. I know, oh my God, I KNOW. I’m a yuppie asshole for even thinking such things, I KNOW. But it turns out that the organic chicken combinations are RANK, and though I make most of my own baby food, I could NOT bring myself to grind CHICKEN, because ew, CREEP.
A few weeks ago, I was standing in my friend Meg’s kitchen and she was rooting around her refrigerator looking for something and pulled out a tupperware container, noting that it was her son Toby’s chicken and that she’d ground it herself like it was no! big! deal! And so I thought that I, TOO could grind my own chicken, and it would be no! big! deal! and then I poached some (hormone-free, local, PUNCH PUNCH) chicken thighs and ground ‘em up with some water and I AM STILL RECOVERING. I had to add water! And grind, like, a WHOLE LOT, until it was a PINK PASTE and I am going to DRY HEAVE UNTIL CHRISTMAS.
My Kryptonite, it is homemade ground chicken. Oh, and it’s currently residing in ice cube trays in my freezer, and I’m thinking I’ll have the balls to pull THAT shit out on the twelfth day of never, and tomorrow, I plan to hand an inordinate amount of money over to Gerber, because whatever, Misty Knoll, I ain’t got the stomach for you, and BRING ON THE CREEPY CHICKEN HORMONES. Sorry, Sam!
PHEW. Now that THAT grossness is over with, I’m sort of at a loss as to where to go from here, so I will give you RANDOM BULLETS OF NOTHINGNESS:
– I sort of cringe saying this, given the recent loss of his son and all, but you know, I have never liked John Travolta, and again with the GUILT OF SAYING THIS, but it all ties back to an interview I read in … Redbook? Good Housekeeping? Eh, one of those magazines for houseladies like me (OMG), but in it, he mentioned that he and his wife went through some hard times a few years back because she was so INSECURE and because he was such a giant movie star, she always thought he was going to leave her. And seriously, I just have not been able to move past that, because if my husband sold out my insecurities to RedHousekeepingLadies, I don’t think he would have a penis anymore, because I would have Lorena Bobbitted that shit the second that thing hit the newsstands, yo.
– Speaking of houseladies, occasionally, when reading about celebrities like Jude Law or Josh Duhamel who get themselves in trouble with the great raggedy-ass masses, I feel SO SORRY for the poor peon that they became involved with, because my God, could they be described in more unflattering terms? And then I think about how US Weekly would describe ME if *I* were the one impregnated with Jude Law’s baby (NO THANK YOU), and I just KNOW that they would say something like “overweight suburban mom and housewife,” complete with accompanying pooch-baring photo and OH HEAVENS, let us all thank YE GODS that I am not and will not be having an affair with anyone famous, nor will I ever find myself in US Weekly.
– My kid pretty much begged to go to bed at 6:30 p.m. tonight. This is likely because this morning, she got up with a rather unfortunate diaper situation at 4:45 a.m. (ALL OVER HER. AND HER CRIB. OH MY LANDS), and decided that it was time to be up up UP! FOR THE DAY. So help me MAN ALIVE, if I see her poopy little ass before 6 a.m., you will find me in the car on my way to Green Mountain Coffee headquarters wondering if they have a vat I can go for a swim in.
Happy Wednesday!
*Tori Amos
20 comments November 10th, 2009