Gather around my rocking chair…

Well, Carr Party of Five has gotten 100 Likes on Facebook. I’m not sure why this tickles me. I guess, because for me, Facebook is a little more accessible than WordPress if you are doing 95% of your electronic socializing on your phone. So, when I’m waiting for my daughter to get out of volleyball practice, or waiting for my friend Magen to show up so we can walk together, or spending valuable time in the bathroom,  I multi-task by popping on my news feed to see what people are up to.

I’m thinking it’s cause for celebration. How ’bout a story from the old days? Go get your popcorn and munchies. I’ll wait.

Way back in once upon a time- time, I was a freshman in college AND simultaneously, a new bride. No, I wasn’t knocked up…..just madly in love. Husbandboy and I lived in this cute little 2-story brick apartment.  We had no money, but it didn’t occur to us to mind. Being an 18-year old girl, who didn’t know how to cook, we ate a lot of spaghetti and grilled cheese, or macaroni and cheese….or just cheese. Spaghettios were tasty on toast.

I might have known how to cook, if I had bothered to listen to my poor mother, who tried every trick in the book to get me interested in the preparing of food. All her cajoling was met with my distinct non-interest and obvious disdain for anything domestic.

So, one day, early Fall, I’m not sure if it was the approaching chilly weather, the changing trees, or the smell of someone burning leaves, but I got inspired to do more than heat up a pan of processed carbs. I called my Mom to ask her how to make a roast. The kind with carrots and onions and potatoes…and gravy.

It was the moment she had been waiting for all her life.

I could HEAR her smiling, I swear to you….I could HEAR it.

So, I went to the store, got everything I needed, and planned to make a feast that night.

I came home to my tiny little kitchen, ready to cook. My Mom had instructed me, that the roast needed to be browned. Ewwww. Raw meat totally grossed me out. Still does. So, I found every way to NOT touch it I could. It took me 80 times longer than the normal person to get the packaging off, and then I decided to just use a big fork to get it in the pan. Now, I had been told to put a LOT of grease in the bottom of that pan. Mom was quick to point out, people who skimped on the grease, came out with a dry roast every time. She assured me, that a dry roast was about as appealing as shoe leather, and not wanting to feed my poor skinny, Over-Cheese-fed husband shoe leather….I was generous with the OIL. I mean, this guy deserved a good home cooked meal.

Browning…browning….. good…this is easy!…browning….browning……uh oh. Now it smelled like it was burning.

I got out my trusty big fork and picked up the partly cooked roast to turn it over in its vat of Partially Hydrogenated devil-sweat, when something bad happened.

The half-cooked chunk of meat fell off the fork…and did a cannonball right into the pan of hot you-know-what.

To say I was covered in hot oil from head to toe is a bit of an understatement. I had on shorts and a t-shirt and no shoes. My face got it….my feet…every bit of my clothes…and HELLO KITTY…it was HOT. I was so shocked by all of this that I just stood there screaming. I was right by the kitchen sink, which would have been a good idea to actually use had I not been suffering from Post Traumatic Cooking Disorder.

But then, my good ole Vanity that I can always rely on kicked in and I took off up the stairs to our bathroom to survey the damage done to my face….screaming a blood-curdling shriek all the way.

It was bad.

Really bad.

More screaming.

Husbandboy had been down in the parking lot working on his truck, when our lovely little Chinese neighbor lady came running to him crying out in broken English…”Something wrong! Lisa screams and screams!”

He ran to our little smoke-filled apartment, realized I had tried to cook, and assumed the worst.

Minutes later in the ER, I was doted on by the best nurses who gently cleaned  and treated the 2nd and 3rd degree burns to my face and body, and who patiently listened to my bits of disconnected thoughts on meat in general and out-loud quandaries on becoming a vegetarian. It’s a sheer miracle that I’m not scarred beyond belief, but I was left with only one little spot above my lip, that shows up when I’ve been in the sun, or eaten too much chocolate.


It’s been 22 years since the deep-frying of Lisa, and I can remember it like yesterday. I’ll never forget coming home that night wrapped up like a deranged Mummy in flip-flops to the best Chinese food I’ve ever eaten in my life. Our little neighbor made it her business to take care of us for the next couple of weeks, and told me a little sheepishly …”I throw out burned meat. It smell bad..I make food for you“.

So, little friends, take it from your Auntie Lisa:  DON’T DO Cooking. Just say no. Chinese neighbors/takeout is the way to go.

Thanks for LIKING me on FACEBOOK!!!! (At 200 likes, I may pull out an even better story).


12 thoughts on “Gather around my rocking chair…

  1. I do not believe you that there could possible be a better story than “deep fried Lisa”. And post traumatic cooking disorder is just about the best made up disorder I’ve ever heard… 🙂

  2. Oh, Lisa! You are too, too funny :D. I am amazed that you a) were married when you were 18 (surely that can’t be legal???), and b) that you managed to give yourself 2nd and 3rd degree burns while cooking a roast of all things! So, tell me. How is your relationship to cooking these days?

    • Dear Sara,
      I assure you it was legal! My Mom tried that angle, believe me.
      heehee is much better, thank you♥
      Although, I’m still not much of a fan of meat in general.
      Love, Lis

  3. OK, Lisa? Laughing. A LOT. Actually peed a little. I’m picturing you, all proud and happy searing the roast, and equating you to my sis, who is also completely repulsed by handling raw meat and doing it all for the love of your man. So wonderful, so sweet, so tragic. ILY, lady. Now I need to go change. 😉

In the latest scientific study, people who comment on blogs are 96% sexier than those who don't.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s