There are defining moments in life where you’re forced to examine what makes you different. For me, one of these moments centered around a hot dog. It was a sunny afternoon in ’94, and a friend of mine had come over for a play date. We were hungry, so my mom suggested some snacks. One of the things on the list was “a cold hot dog”. This didn’t strike me as particularly alarming, as I had been eating hot dogs in various states of cooked-ness for as long as I could remember. It wasn’t uncommon to grab a cold one right from the package and eat it with my hands like it was a hydrated Slim Jim. I grew up in a Hawaiian family, and this was normal. Other ways to eat hot dogs included: in a sandwich, fried in a pan, with Pork n’ Beans, and of course, with eggs. […]
I am back. I can breathe out of my nose. It basically feels like the first day of spring. I want to click my heels and dance with my hands waving in the air. I want to do jumping jacks. I want to bake cookies. I want to do anything that is not struggling to breathe while lying on a couch and watching terrible daytime programming. I want to eat anything but chicken soup. If I eat anymore chicken soup, I fear I will actually transform into a chicken. This would make my cooking/blogging life difficult. Wings don’t have thumbs, making it very hard to type and even harder to lift things like pots or baking sheets.
Enough of that. I haven’t left the house for more than ten minutes at a time in the last six days. Forgive all preposterous declarations of what life would be like if I was indeed a blogging chicken. It would be hard, that’s all I am sayin’. Also, I would probably not make you things like quiche. Chickens don’t eat quiche. Aren’t you happy I am not a chicken? […]