Gimme Some of That Shank Bone, Baby

Another way less interesting article appeared in today's Washington Post. It's about how much some people love matzoh. I don't know who these people are, and I find it kinda hard to believe that that many people would voluntarily choose to eat it. Although maybe if I didn't have to I would too--but doubtful. However, when the article states, "Among 1,000 respondents in a 2004 independent online poll who identified themselves as "non-Jewish," 24 percent had purchased a Manischewitz product. Matzo was at the top of the list," I think we all know what product is probably at the very top of that list. (Hint: It goes into the red mold and is another reason why certain elderly family members prefer the red to the green).

My chicken soup stockpile had an unfortunate casualty last night. I put the soup bags into the freezer while they were still warm and while I was thinking about it, because I'm notorious for forgetting to put perishable foods into the fridge or freezer (this only ever happens to things I've cooked but am not ready to eat yet--like last year's infamous Matzoh Lasagna that I spent all night cooking in preparation for the next night's dinner, and then never got to even taste since it spent the night out on the counter. This was the worst--imagine an already monstrous Emil, craving carbs like crazy, discovering that she's ruined her lasagna when she goes to make coffee in the morning. I think I roared in frustration.) Anyway, I must have put the warm chicken stock bags right next to the chocolate chocolate chip ice cream, because when I got it out to eat for dessert, half of the container was liquid. Luckily I like ice cream soup, but Javert was less than pleased. Too bad for him. I also totally forgot to refrigerate the chicken drumstick I was saving for the cats' breakfast, but surprisingly it was untouched in the morning even though it spent the night on a plate on the stove. Either my cats are idiots, or we've successfully put the fear of god into them regarding jumping on the stove. (Probably the former, since Paxwell continues to attempt to get into the oven when I'm using the broiler.)

No hot sex tonight. Sorry.