So, a couple weeks ago we had some friends in for dinner. I made one of my 'sure to impress' dishes that everyone always requests the recipe for -- spicy chicken with mango salsa. (But instead of using regular chicken breasts, I prefer the faux chick'n variety, because I'm picky like that. As you will soon learn, this is very relevant to the story. ;)

Anyhow, I love to cook... and that is by no means an understatement -- I really do LOVE it. All our friends who have ever had the pleasure of coming to our place for dinner have left the table envying J, (and at the risk of sounding immodest,) I can see why. The guy never has to cook a meal and always eats like a king... well, actually, scratch that, because he's cooking us spaghetti with faux meatballs tonight. But really, J cooking a meal is like a once every month or two kinda thing, only because when he cooks a meal, it takes the fun away from me. I know this'll sound totally Suzie Homemakerish, but when the evening rolls around, if I'm not busy in the kitchen then it's like I suddenly don't know what to do with myself. Which is why I'm blogging right now.... filling time, and keeping an eye on J's sauce through the kitchen pass-through window thingy.

Speaking of which, the water is boiling like mad and he hasn't put the pasta in yet. *Okay... just leave it be Mel, leave it be... he'll notice soon enough. He can handle it.* Goodness, you have no idea how hard it is for me to keep myself in this computer chair and not doublecheck to see if he put some mushrooms in that spaghetti sauce...

Okay, now I've completed derailed this blog post, haven't I? Where was I? Oh yes, dinner two weeks ago...

So I made this delicious dinner, but as I bit into my chick'n, I felt something small and hard in my mouth. I rolled the object across my tongue. It felt like my nose stud. How the heck could my nose ring fall out of my nose and into my mouth? Gross!

When no one was looking, I discretely took the object from my between my front teeth and set it next to my plate. It was a tiny nail, about the exact size of my nose stud. Greeeeaaat.

Once dinner was finished, and none of our guests had mentioned finding any unusual ingredients in their chick'n and salsa, I felt safe enough to make my discovery known. J n' I scoured the kitchen to see if the nail might have fallen from the light fixture above the stove, or perhaps from the salt n' pepper grinders. Nope. Clearly, the only place it could've come from was inside the fake chick'n breast, since I found it in my mouth right after taking a bite.

The next day I wrote a nice (but firm) letter to the company who produced the chick'n breasts, as well as their parent company. My letters prompted immediate phone calls from company representatives, a series of questioning, followed by Fedex arriving to pick up the "metalic object", and then more follow-up phone calls. It was a big ordeal, which they no doubt took very, very seriously. I was quite impressed with their professionalism, and I'm sure they appreciated that I wasn't a bitch about it.

Yeah... a bitch... thank goodness I wasn't a bitch, because the following weekend I was making a Special K Roast (which has a bunch of really weird ingredients, but if you're brave enough to combine them, the results are really, really good), as I was using my new dollar store pastry brush to grease the cassarole dish, I noticed a tiny little nail roll across the bottom of the pan.

Oh. Shit.

I lifted the pastry brush to inspect it. Yup... sure enough it was now missing two nails. Dammit. I immediately realized that I used this same brush to coat the chick'n the week before. The nail must've fallen out without me noticing and then gotten baked to the bottom of the breast.

Oh shoot, dinner is served... I'll be back to finish this story later.