Today I’m introducing a feature I have no plans to ever do again. So, if you hate it, it’s your lucky day. If you love it, then you will have something to brood about besides the weather and that hot guy who said he never wanted to have sex with you again.
This week I did many brave and wonderful things. Normally, my weeks are full of foolish antics and hapless hijinks, so this is going to be hard for me. Bragging and being all big in my britches.
The most impressive thing I did was dredge a piece of raw meat in buttermilk and breadcrumbs. I shit you not, I purchased a carton of buttermilk, not something I’ve even laid eyes on since 1979 in my Grandmother Tate’s old yellow farmhouse. Then, I followed a recipe I’d memorized for so-called Unfried Chicken that I saw Trisha Yearwood (of country music fame) make on an episode of the Food Network. I watched that whole damn thing while in the treadmill because the TV was broken so all I could get was country music chicken recipes or Joel Osteen. Don’t judge. I was hungry.
Anyway, because I was running while watching my concentration was at its peak. I’ma make that recipe. I got all the stuff together: Panko breadcrumbs, Louisiana hot sauce, chicken, lemons.
Listen, it didn’t taste any more like fried chicken than the sole of my flip flop, but it was decent. Edible. And that was not me who snuck out later to buy some Popeye’s chicken and biscuits. Not me– I don’t like biscuits. (Yes I do.)
What else? I was sure there was something else magical and noteworthy that I did.
Does downloading three Willie Nelson songs count?
What about losing my ever-living shizz in the parking lot after swim lessons when Sadie was refusing to get into the car and I was starving because it was 2PM and I hadn’t eaten? That was the lowest point of my parenting life EVER. It was so awful. I could tell I was going to blow at 1:30, but Sadie simple wouldn’t be hurried. I was begging her, “Mommy is super hungry and she gets pretty mean when that happens. Let’s try to hurry.” When she started crying a few minutes later because I wouldn’t let her play at the outdoor playground even though she had wet hair and it was only 20 degrees outside, I blew. I blew my stack long and hard and as forceful as that nasty nor’easter that blows off the Lake. She cried. I cried. Simon cried. Little snow pigeons cried.
Later that night, I used my buttermilk to dredge the chicken. It was an offering. A please forgive me for not taking care of my physical needs and for putting myself in a situation where there was no way I wasn’t going to blow. It was an amends. A prayer for better days ahead and better snacks in my purse on swimming days. It was a promise to learn from the pain. It was an I’m sorry your mother is deeply flawed, but here’s some healthy breaded chicken.
Normally, this whole post would be about that bloody afternoon and all the ways I failed my kids, myself, and humankind. But like writing with the non-dominant hand, I’m exercising other muscles. It feels weird to be bragging about buttermilk, instead of ragging on myself.
So, yeah, I was awesome this week with the whole buttermilk thing.