So I really like comfort food, okay?
I fight the urge most of the time, and that's how I manage to keep my girlish figure and my heart pumping on a regular basis, which, according to my doctor, is something just this side of essential.
But I got this deep frying machine, ya know? And I just really, really, REALLY love homemade French fries.
So, last night I decided to make some of the crispy potato fingers to add to my supper.
Now, I'm really picky about my French fries. They have to be made from Yukon Gold potatoes. After I wash them and cut them, I stick them into the freezer for about twenty minutes. Then they are taken out and immediately plunged into a bath of 375 degree extra virgin olive oil for exactly seven minutes. A sprinkling of sea salt followed by a touch of garlic powder and...voila!...a side dish fit for a king!
So, I went about the kitchen last night getting everything ready with great excitement and anticipation. However, when I opened the deep fryer and peered in, the vegetable oil appeared thick and brown and, well, mybloggers.
This just would not do.
So I took the deep fryer and headed for the back door. I had every intention of walking across the back yard and dumping the contents of the appliance on the summer site of my vegetable garden. But then, I opened the back door and was rudely reminded that there were eight inches of snow on the ground, and the garden was way the hell over on the other side of the yard by the pasture fence. Sooooooooo, it seemed to make a whole lot more sense just to stand in the doorway and fling the oily sludge over the snow, where it would eventually sink into the soil once the snow melted.
So that's what I did, and, without giving anything a second thought, I went back inside and began cooking my supper. At some point, as I was happily buzzing around the kitchen like Betty Crocker with a penis, totally engrossed in food preparation, I looked out the window and spied my German shepherd Fritz chowing down on the oil-soaked snow with a vengeance seldom observed in a domesticated animal. I immediately dropped everything and ran like a vegan from a slaughterhouse to the back door.
"Come here, Fritz!"
He doesn't even look up from his feast.
The same non-response.
"FRITZ! GET YOUR GODDAMNED ASS OVER HERE NOW BEFORE I BREAK EVERY BONE IN YOUR STUPID BODY . . .please."
Reluctantly, he obeyed.
After I got Fritzy inside, I scanned the area, and was delighted to find my other shepherd, Dixie, minding her own business further out in the yard, paying no attention whatsoever to the oilfield bonanza. But I called her in anyway.
After dinner and a mindless Netflix movie, I was ready for bed. So, as is my custom, I carried old Dixie up the stairs and set her down on the bed, and Fritzy dutifully followed. After brushing my teeth and doing all the things I do to prepare for bed, I crawled under the covers and gave the pups their nightly treat of a Werthers Butterscotch. Dixie gobbled her's down, crunching happily and thumping her tail on the bed to show her pleasure and approval.
Fritz however, who usually goes berserk for the candy, did not. He just laid there with his head between his paws, the candy not two inches for nose.
"You okay, boy?"
He lifted his gaze to meet mine without even raising his head.
Something was wrong.
After a few minutes, the big boy sluggishly stood up and carefully slid off the bed. As I heard him slowly trudging down the stairs, it suddenly dawned on me - The oil! Fritz ate the oil, and now his stomach was upset!
I got up and walked down the stairs to check on him, and found him lying lethargically on the rug in the living room. So I walked up to him and sat down and petted him for a few minutes.
He groaned once or twice, but he didn't budge.
I got up and opened the front door, trying to coax him to go outside, but he would have none of it. So I went over and pet him one more time, told him that I hoped he felt better soon, and then I toddled up the stairs to bed.
About a half hour later, I was sharply awakened out of a sound sleep by a ghastly, unworldly noise coming from downstairs.
I sat bolt upright in bed, threw the covers off, and leapt towards the stairs.
I seriously doubt that my feet touched one single stair during my descent. Upon hitting the first floor, I turned into the living room...and there, in the middle of the room, standing on the expensive, wall-to-wall carpet, was the one and only Fritz The Dog, dry-heaving to beat the band.
I ran to him, scooped the 95-pound canine up in my arms and ran for the door like I was shot out of a cannon. All the while, Fritz was in my arms with horrible, sickening sounds emanating from his doggy lips.
Perching the pathetic pooch in the crook of one elbow, I managed to open the front door. I no sooner stepped out onto the icy stoop in my bare feet, when I slipped and fell on the the slick cement. My feet went straight up in the air, and my pajama-covered butt went straight down as I very unceremoniously crashed down on my unprotected coccyx bone, and the big puppy that I was carrying landed squarely on my chest, knocking all the wind out of my lungs.
As I lay there on my back wheezing and gasping for breath, my feet freezing, my ass throbbing, Fritzy nonchalantly got to his feet, walked over to the nearest bush, and lifted his leg for what I thought was amazing amount of time.
When I finally could breathe again, I got to my feet and made my way back into the house. Fritz tried to follow me in, but I stopped him, realizing that he had not yet puked.
"No!" I said sternly and pointed to the front lawn. "Go and be a good boy!"
I then shut the door behind me and went to a window to watch.
For a good ten minutes, Fritz meandered about the front yard, and he seemed to get revitalized. He investigated something around the base of the big maple tree, seemed curious about something going on in one of the crevices in the stone wall, and barked like an idiot at some unseen and unheard entity down the street. Then, he trotted back to the front steps, plunked his butt down, and stared the door.
I opened the door and looked him over suspiciously. He was panting happily. So I swung the door a little wider, and he stepped into the house. I stopped him, lifted his snout up to my face, and inspected him more carefully. His eyes were clear. His tail was wagging. He leaned forward and licked my nose. So I let him in.
He then took three very confident strides into the living room, stopped dead in the middle of the carpet, . . . and puked his fucking guts out.
He let up an awful load of chum!
When he was finished, he sniffed his deposit for a moment. Then he trotted past me without a care in the world and bounded up the stairs to go search for his butterscotch.