​Late one night my boyfriend and I stopped at a bar near a river on our way home from the northern coast of Spain. My boyfriend ordered two small glasses of beer. The bartender started talking about some tapas then he said he had some eels, fresh eels, did we want some?

I said, “No thank you” graciously while doing an inner cringe. My boyfriend, however, was interested and he started asking all sorts of questions.

I drifted to the windows and looked out into the dark night, squinted my eyes out toward the rough flowing river. I was tired and there was still at least an hour until we got to his parents’ country house. I sighed and walked back to the bar just as a plastic shopping bag was being placed on the counter.

My boyfriend had his wallet out and was paying, so we must be leaving soon.

“Maybe you should double-bag them.” My boyfriend said.

I thought that was odd until I noticed that the bag was moving. To be more accurate, there were moving beings inside the bag.

“What…?”

“Eels,” my boyfriend explained, “Just caught! My aunt will be thrilled!”

The bartender double bagged the eels, he could have put them in twelve bags and I wouldn’t have felt better.

“How are we going to get them home?” I worried.

“Oh, we’ll just put the bag at your feet.”

“How about the trunk? They’ll be more comfortable in the trunk – it’s much cooler.”

The eels rode home in the trunk and I rode home with my feet crossed on the seat – just in case the double bag broke.
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One spring day, I drove to the motorcycle shop. My husband was leaving his motorcycle for a State inspection and I was going to drive him home.

It has been a hectic morning, what with getting or children off to school, and I was enjoying being alone in the car - at least for the twenty-minute drive.

As I turned in to the shop parking lot, I admired the soft green of the trees’ new leaves. I opened my window. Amazing. I had gotten to the bike shop before my husband.

The young woman who worked in the garage store was leaning against the building’s rough wooden planks. I got out of the car and walked over.

“Hi….” I ventured, “You’re open, right?”

“Yeah, sure, it’s just….” And she paused to light her cigarette, her hand trembling just enough that she had to pass the lighter over the end twice. “It’s just I don’t want to go in there.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s out.”

“What’s out?”

“The iguana.”

“What iguana?”

“You never saw the iguana? It’s huge - maybe you just never noticed it – it’s a couple of feet long. It usually just hangs out in its pen, but when he gets out he roams all over the shop and I am not going in there.”

I watched her hand tremble again and I leaned against the building with her.

“Me neither.”

I don’t mean to poison myself, it just happens. The last time was just about a week ago; I had a residual Thanksgiving craving for cranberry-ginger sauce.

I admit, I was tired, and anxious for some of that good chutney. I hurried. I definitely miscalculated. The ginger chunks were big enough to cover the tops of my molars; the teaspoon of ground red pepper was more like a tablespoon. I stirred and let the mixture firm up before sampling.

My lips burned and my stomach seethed, but I kept on munching the ginger – it was way too expensive to just throw it all out.

I searched the internet and called my oldest brother, expert in all things, to confirm that no one has ever died of ginger over-dose.

I am slowly working my way through the chutney, mouthing out the excess ginger, and really appreciating the cranberries, when I get any.

…and again…part II

It’s one thing to almost poison yourself and quite another to almost poison your family, and worse still, your children’s friends. My daughter had made an egg noodle with chopped beef and tomato sauce in her middle school home and careers class. I had seen the recipe at some point but the only ingredient I remembered was, “medium-sized egg noodles.”

A nice detail but not very helpful when preparing the dish. The noodles were to be cooked in the sauce – I think – and since my daughter had a friend over who doesn’t eat beef, I made her a separate pan of meatless egg noodles in sauce.

I have never said it before and I doubt I will ever say it again, but as I served dinner I shook my finger and said, “Now eat it all up!”

My children openly defied me.

“This is awful!”

My husband nodded quietly in agreement, winced, and motioned to his gut.

But the friends? They obliged and cleaned their plates.

They amazing thing is both lived and both came back to our house, and they both prefer it when my husband cooks dinner.
​

“It has been a few years, since I’ve had a kitchen disaster,” I thought as I made dinner.

I was proud of myself, I had the vegetable concoction baking alongside a pan of gluten-free brownies for my friend, and a pan of gluten-filled brownies for my family. I eyed the hamburger meat on a plate and decided to stick them in the oven, too. I thought it would be easier than using a pan.

“A frying pan is just too risky for me,” I reasoned, “Three of the four kitchen fires I’ve had were due to frying pan mishaps.”

I cleaned up as I went, progress smooth, then I opened the oven door and a hot wave hit my face, my glasses steamed up, the room filled with the greasy smoke from the hamburgers.

Our fire alarm rang out. I slammed the metal tray on the stove top, grabbed my cell phone, and called 911.

“Please notify the fire department that there’s no problem.”

“We have to get all your information first….”

“Please, just tell them not to come! There’s no fire.”

I got through spelling my last name, three times, first name, street name all in a breathless panic. I hung up with 911.

At that moment, the alarm company called, “Should we call and tell the fire department not to come?”

“Yes, but you’re going to be too late, they’re usually here in under five minutes…”

As I said that, the red hook and ladder truck appeared in front of our house.

“They’re here. Thanks anyways…” I went out to greet the firefighters.

“Come in! Come in! I tried to call them off but you’re too quick!”

“Are there flames this time?”

“Oh no, just smoke."

“Have you fixed the floor yet?”

“No, I thought it’d be a good reminder to be more careful…”

“Well, it has been a few years now.” He addressed two younger firefighters, “You have to check out the burn mark on the floor – now that was a fire!”
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