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So.

A few months ago my husband revealed to me that he doesn’t like taco seasoning, and why. Apparently some years ago, after spending a day with a friend of a friend who apparently doesn’t shower often enough, I remarked that this person smelled like taco seasoning. And he did. He was very fragrant and, umm, cumin-y.

Okay, fine. I don’t need taco seasoning. I can mix up my own little spice blend, without so much salt, etc., etc., blah, blah, blah. Heaven knows we don’t want to subject anyone to unwashed-hippie tacos.

But today, he broke the news that, in fact, he doesn’t really like tacos at all.

What. The. Hell? Who doesn’t like tacos? How in the world can a person look at a taco and say, hey, I don’t find that at all appealing?

It’s crunchy, it has meat, there’s cheese, there’s refreshing sour cream. There’s hot sauce. What in the world is wrong with him? The boy and I love tacos. I could easily eat them once every couple of weeks. Plus,ย as anyone who is the sole cook in her house knows, tacos areย an easy trick to have in your bag of dinners.

So we now can add tacos to the lengthy list of things he finds unpalatable. These include onions, peppers of any kind, tomatoes, cucumbers, too much corn in any recipe containing corn, lima beans, tomato soup, green beans that aren’t canned, enchiladas (including a casserole recipe that I have tweaked until it is adored by everyone who tries it…except him), romaine lettuce, asparagus (unless covered in hollandaise sauce), and a slew of other things I probably don’t know about. And now, tacos.

Asshat.

You know, you’d be hard pressed to find a guy cooler than my husband. He’s unassuming, he’s brilliant, he’s funny, and he has the most beautiful eyes and gentle soul you could ever hope to see every day in another person. You also probably don’t know anyone with such a diverse aesthetic, or such a huge music collection. He has phenomenal insight, he’s a great dad, he’s a good guy. You’d be lucky to have him. Really, really lucky.

But he’s a dork.

He will freely admit this. He is, however, an old-school dork. No e-mailing or texting for him. Instead, he’s an audiophile, a sci-fi geek, a fantasy game kind of guy. And the fantasy game of the past three years has been World of Warcraft. Or, you know, WoW for those of you not hip to the lingo. The best part of this addiction is when he slips on the headset and talks to other people while he’s playing. I just sort of roll my eyes and chuckle…and remind myself that he could be crawling home at 4 a.m. and wanting to feel me up while smelling of Jim Beam and chaw. Shudder.

Anyway, the boy is, of course, fascinated by this game. He likes to commandeer a character and explore the terrain, climb on the back of a dragon (or a flying cat, because THAT’S extremely plausible) and take to the sky, or, on very rare occasions, take a thwack at some sort of troll. Just this week, he told a kid in the pre-k lineup that he’s a Level 70 Blood Elf. As though anyone knows what in the world that is.

Sometimes I want to smack myself in the head. I never intended for my child to be so plugged in. But he has an imagination that entertains him most of the time. He loves to read, he has great hand-eye coordination, and he’s just an all-around lovely little boy. I wonder sometimes if dorkdom, like eye color, is inherited…but then I think that maybe this is just time for a father and son to pretend together, to be a part of something independent of me, to snuggle up in a chair and laugh and talk.

So scoff if you want, judge if you must. But is your kid a Level 70 Blood Elf? Yeah. Didn’t think so. ๐Ÿ˜›

Or just prone to the power of suggestion? A little backstory, if you will.

My boys love pierogies. I admit to being partial to them, too. They’re potatoes. They’re pasta. They’re a carb-laden comfort food good time. And if you add a little hot sauce, a little sour cream…hoo yeah. If you’ve never had one, they look like this.

Well, ours look similar to that. Omit the onion, because if my husband ate an onion, he would surely perish. And nix the garnish because, well, that’s just too fancified.

Anyway, my mother-in-law gave me a bag of burgers from her freezer, so I decided to fix them for dinner. I usually fix fries with burgers, or something equally gluttonous, like macaroni and cheese. And, just as an aside, folks, it’s macaroni and cheese, or MAYBE mac and cheese. It is NOT mac ‘n chz, mac ‘n’ cheez, or mac-n-chz. Jeez. It’s no wonder most eighth-graders can’t read. But back to the eventual point…

I looked in the freezer for fries and stumbled upon the corner of a box of pierogies. I got distracted, closed the freezer, and started thinking that maybe, just maybe, pierogies and burgers would would work together. I thought, hey, I’m onto something unusual here. So I pulled out the box. And there, on the front of the box, was a picture of the pierogies…next to a cheeseburger. See?

So I’m no innovator. I just file away suggestions and reprocess them as my own thoughts. Isn’t that special?

Hehehe. If that’s not melodrama, I don’t know what is.

Today is perfect chili weather. It’s in the low 60s, windy, and rainy from an incoming nor’easter. So chili it is. For reasons I’ll discuss in another post, I don’t use easy, incredibly convenient packets of chili seasoning. My husband can’t dig it. So I just throw a bunch of stuff in a pot, add spices and an insane amount of chili powder, and it turns out magically delicious.

I had exactly one tablespoon of chili powder, and anyone knows that’s not enough for a decent pot of chili. I had errands to run, including a trip to Dollar Tree, so I figured I would pick up some there. Any store has chili powder. I even asked. No chili powder. I just can’t pay $5 for the grocery store stuff, so I figured that of course, in the back of my spice cabinet, I would have a spare jar. I always do. And I did. And it was empty.

I don’t know why in the hell I would return an empty jar of chili powder to the cabinet, but there you have it. I think I may be slightly moronic. Regardless, I’m making it work. There is a bitching pot of chili simmering on the stove. But dinner might be interesting….

๐Ÿ˜€

I’m back! My husband (the one who hates both chili and taco seasoning, thus guaranteeing that making either of these ostensibly easy dishes is generally a pain in the ass) declared it my best pot of chili in the entire 16 years he has known me. I should make it this way every time. Um. That’s the downside of just throwing a bunch of crap in a pot. ๐Ÿ˜‰

I’m beginning to think I don’t do nearly enough with my boy in the morning before he goes to school. The husband is home, sick, and Nicholas hasn’t dropped a syllable all morning.

Anyway, he’s flitting around, playing pirates, playing chef, playing all kinds of stuff, and he asked if he could make his dad some soup to help him feel better.

The offering…”Dad, let’s pretend I give you the soup, and it has roaches and eyeballs in it, and let’s pretend you think that’s ‘scusting.”

No need for pretending there.

Roaches AND eyeballs. Apparently both are needed to actually make it “‘scusting.”

๐Ÿ˜€

So, I have been in a snit for the past two days over something stupid my husband said. It doesn’t bear repeating, really, because it’s not a huge deal, but the snit was well deserved.

Alas, my plan of cold, calculated silence and terseness was stopped dead. Poor guy is flat on his back with some sort of bronchial illness. Being a little too brusque and ignoring him now would be the ultimate in bitchiness, no?

Granted, the bronchitis sucks, but if that’s not a survival mechanism, I don’t know what is.