I realize that when I don’t say anything for a few days that you people get all depressed. I appreciate it. I miss you too! I want you all out there to know that I have so much to say to you, but I just don’t have time to get it down. There are other blog sites out there, but those guys don’t love you like I do. They will say that they will be there for dinner, but they won’t show up and they won’t even call. You can rest assured that I will never miss dinner.
I’ve got a list of topics sitting on my desk that I plan to blog over; I just can’t find the time. From the constant annoyances of customers to fascist professors at school insisting I do the course work, I just don’t have time for the important things in life. I am a writing major, I can not understand why my instructors will not just read my blog and give me an A. (Well, maybe not an A. This is not the most well written site on the net.)
My garden loves this damp, cool fall weather that we have been having. Yesterday I went out to see what needed to be picked and I had about fifty chili peppers and about thirty jalapenos. I decided it was time to (as my Memaw would say) put some of them up.
I am new to gardening and new to canning, so it has been a summer of learning for me. I went to Wal-Mart and purchased a dozen half-pint mason jars with lids and screw-tops. Then I went to the grocery store and got some vinegar, fresh garlic, and baby carrots to put in the jars with the peppers. When I got home I fumbled my way through it. The whole process lasted about an hour including clean up. (In my kitchen there is always pre and post clean up, because it is too small to do anything if it is not perfectly in order.) Best of all, every single one of my jars sealed up tight. Now if I can just stay out of them long enough for them to age well.
I had decided that I wanted my peppers cut up, like the ones you get with nachos at the ballgame. I sliced the jalapenos diagonally and cut the little chilies once long ways before putting them in the jars. After I got finished I sat in my chair and watched some TV. I had my arms crossed and my left hand resting on my mouth. After about an hour I noticed something felt funny. I got up and looked in the mirror and my bottom lip was swelled out to about the size of a polish sausage. Always wear rubber gloves when you cut up hot peppers. Now, fifteen hours later it is still a little puffy on one side.
My sleeping schedule is still all screwy from going to the concert in Memphis this weekend. We did not get back until nearly 3:00 AM and I took the morning off yesterday so I could sleep in. Of course last night I did not want to go to bed until 1:00. That means that this morning I hit the snooze button in my sleep until I finally noticed that it was 7:15 and I had to be at work in fifteen minutes. I made it, but I did not get any breakfast.
That does not cut it. I have to have breakfast. It takes a strict regimen of calories and fat grams every day to maintain this gelatinous body shape. So when I got to the office I went up stairs to Mr. Rector’s snack bar. Mr. Rector is an old blind guy that can tell what denomination of money you gave him by how it smells. He has a lady running a breakfast hot bar with biscuits, gravy, scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, sausage patties, grits, you know – the essentials. Whenever I go up there I always order one biscuit with gravy and an order of scrambled eggs. The lady scooping the slop does the most amazing thing . . . she puts the biscuit in the foam to-go box, then she puts the eggs kind of half way on top of the biscuit, then she fills the entire box to the brim with thick, steaming, creamy, gravy. Now that is what I call soup. You just take a knife and cut up the biscuit, then stir it all up and go to town!
So this morning I walk up to the counter and say, “I would like one biscuit with gravy and an order of eggs please” and the sweet cook prepares this little treat like she does every time. There is this short old bitty standing in line behind me making faces like she has a used gym sock tied around her neck. She looks at me a groans, “You put gravy on your eggs?”
I said, “Nope, she puts it on there for me.”