Last night I was slaving over a hot kitchen counter . I wasn't so much cooking as I was prepping, and the heat of the day had finally seeped into my little mountain home and settled in the kitchen.
Anyway, I was prepping for taco salads for myself and my beloved, who was already feet-up in his recliner, watching the evening news. Lined up on the counter were sliced heirloom tomatoes, chopped green onions, grated cheese, beans that had been simmered with garlic and ground chicken meat that had been browned with onions. It was a counter of beauty.
And then I reached for the base layer, tortilla chips that I had stashed in the cupboard behind organic rice cakes and boxed macaroni and cheese. Abe would never find the chips there, I had reasoned, because he has a force field that keeps him safe from rice cakes and face mac 'n' cheese.
Wrong-o, buck-o. The bag of chips, new the day before, was less than half full. Certianly not enough for two salads.
There are two transgressions I have a hard time letting go (and I spend a lot of time repenting over that fact). One is malicious gossip, and the other is eating all the chips but leaving the bag in the cupboard to make the casual observer think there are chips in it. And to be honest with you, I'm not sure which transgression ticks me off more.
All's well that ultimately ends well. Sort of. Abe ate his "salad" on steamed rice. Me? I was just steamed, eating my salad on corn chip crumbs. KTG
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