It is beyond cold in my neck of the woods right now. I have not seen the temperature above fifteen degrees for the past week or so. It's usually been much closer to zero degrees. If you know me well at all, you know that I hate, hate, HATE the cold. I start to shiver when it hits the low sixties. This weather and I are not getting along.
Luckily, I have a garage. It's a separate building from my home, so I still have to go outside to get to it (someday that will change), and it's not exactly toasty inside, but it does stay warm enough that I don't have to scrape my car before I need to go somewhere.
On Sunday Lewis and I had three bags and a toddler (each of which weighed in at about twenty pounds) to lug to church. Combine that with the frigid temperature and a kid that likes to take his mittens off at any possible moment and we decided to drive. Lewis had to stay after for a meeting, so it was just Jack and me for the drive home. When I opened the garage, I discovered that Lewis had parked his car the previous night in such a way that made it difficult for me to get my car in too. I probably would have been just fine, but we were leaving for dinner at Lewis' parents' house as soon as he got home, and then Lewis could put my car away, so I just parked it on the street.
Except we didn't end up going to his parents' house. And I had a doctors appointment the next morning so I couldn't just leave my car be until Lewis could deal with it.
I know it's pathetic of me to complain about having to scrape my car. But to be fair, I have really poor circulation in my hands and am kind of OCD, so it's not like I could just scrape a little hole to see out of and call it good. Don't judge me too harshly.
I like to think I'm a pretty good cook. I prefer baking, but I can keep my family well-fed. I really enjoy learning new cooking techniques and making as much of my food from scratch as possible. What I'm trying to say is, I know my way around the kitchen.
Except when it comes to fried chicken. I don't know what my deal is, if it's my pan, ingredients, or what, but quality fried chicken just eludes me. It's not something we care to have very often, but every once in a while I'll give it another shot. Usually I can at least come up with something edible.
The time was ripe for another kitchen catastrophe, so last night I put forth my best effort to smoke out our kitchen. I fell just short of setting off the smoke alarms, but my contacts are still a little fuzzy from the work. Dinner was ruined, in every sense of the word.
Thankfully I have a Little Caesar's just five minutes away, and a husband willing to venture out into ten-degree weather to save our supper. Besides, pizza goes much better with the BCS national championship than fried chicken anyway. I mean, if I had messed up hot wings... now, that would be a different story.