Check, Please!

It is Day 612 of the Lingering Chest Cold.

Or so it seems.

I actually lost track of the days somewhere after I hit 598.

I feel like I should be writing a journal, like some scientist on the polar ice cap.

Day 612, and I have nothing new to report, other than the fact that the nightly coughing is reaching epic proportions, and the little polar bear cubs keep following me. I know the mother bear is hiding, probably behind the snowman I built last month, and that she has an intricate plan laid out for catching me.

Last night, Hubs used his new Traeger birthday grill to whip up Teriyaki Rib Eyes With Blue Cheese Butter.

I know!

That’s kind of a grown-up meal, isn’t it?! Or at least it’s a far cry from the titles of our usual dinners.

Tacos. Cold Cereal. Scrambled Eggs. Spaghetti. Shake ‘N Bake Chicken. Smoked Rainbow Trout. Chicken and Broccoli Casserole. Lasagna.

Hubs and I claim that the more exotic a menu item sounds, the more grown-up it will taste.

Tube Steaks Served in Breading With Fresh Tomato Sauce and Ground Mustard. See? Even hot dogs on a bun can sound like something served at the poshest establishment.

(People, fasten your seatbelts. The cold medication has dulled my reflexes and heightened my senses this week, and I take no responsibility for whatever happens to end up on the blog post tonight. I’m simply shooting from the hip, under the influence of expectorants that make me jittery. I am having no problem whatsoever getting my crazy on these days.)

Seriously, though, Hubs grilled steaks last night, and he whipped up a blue cheese butter that was divine, if you happen to be a member of the tribe that actually likes blue cheese.

I am not a member of this tribe. Hence, I was not overly fond of the blue cheese butter, and I simply took Hubs’ word for it that it was quite tasty and could very possibly be served at a sassy little clubhouse on the 9th green.

While Hubs was grilling away, I steamed some green beans, baked some potatoes, and threw a green salad together. Everything seemed to be ready at the same time, and Hubs yanked the aluminum foil off of the steaks, which had been resting.

(The fact that I know the appropriate kitchen term for keeping steaks under aluminum foil makes my heart burst with pride. I think I learned it on Julie and Julia. Who says that movies aren’t educational?)

Hubs boldly announced, “Look at these chunks of beef perfection! There aren’t even any spots of charred bits at all. I am a steak-grilling wonderment!”

(And also? Humble. Hubs is very humble.)

Hubs hacked into the first steak, cutting a piece off for the boy’s plate. I happened to catch a glimpse of it, and I said, quite simply, “There is no way that I am going to eat that bit of meat. It’s raw!”

Hubs insisted that burned Teriyaki Rib Eyes with Blue Cheese Butter were not going to be served on HIS shift. I insisted that THE WORMS! WE’D BE INVADED BY TAPEWORMS IF WE ATE WHAT HE WAS OFFERING US!

Indeed.

Hubs soon saw the error of his thinking and announced, “Wow. These steaks appear to be LESS THAN COOKED.”

The steaks were returned to the grill, and Hubs moaned, “I don’t understand! I grilled them exactly as long as I should have!”

Our family of three lingered around in the kitchen, staring at our plates of baked potatoes and green beans and salads. The boy kept complaining, “I’m starving!” We kept assuring him, “The steaks will be ready momentarily.”

Hubs checked the grill on the deck again, and exclaimed with horror, “It’s not cooking! Something is wrong! Something is seriously wrong!”

I sighed, and decided that going vegetarian for dinner was fine and wondered if the Traeger could be returned after we’d used it four times already, when Hubs burst through the deck doors and shouted out, “Apparently my Traeger grill is more of a manly grill than what I have been using in the past, because I have BLOWN A BREAKER, Sweetheart!”

That was the culprit. The Traeger popped a breaker, which was easily fixed, and Hubs grinned from ear to ear at THE UNCHALLENGED, MASCULINE POWER OF HIS NEW GRILL. The grill had to reheat itself. The steaks, which had never even had a chance to cook the first time around, what with the grill being kicked off with the blown fuse, began to SLOWLY DARKEN.

And when I say slowly, I mean very slowly.

(And I know that very isn’t an incredibly descriptive word, but it is what it is tonight. It’s like in the 4th grade, when the teacher says to the student, “Okay, so your story is good. I love the part where you describe running through the darkened forest, with the wicked witch chasing you. You said that you ran fast. HOW did you run? Let’s be MORE DESCRIPTIVE!” And the 4th grader gives his teacher a deadpan stare and says, “I ran VERY fast??”)

(I majored in English for my first two full years in college, people. Moments like the one described above is what made me switch my major, because I wasn’t sure I could handle papers filled with a whole lot of verys.)

(Verys? Veries? Can you even misspell the pluralized form of a word, when pluralizing it makes it a NON-WORD?)

We continued to stand around the kitchen last night, waiting on our steaks and gazing upon our vegetables, when Hubs announced, “Let’s just eat the salad and potatoes; the steaks will be done in a moment.”

So we did. We sat down to dinner. Hubs proclaimed, “This is exactly like eating at a posh little restaurant, where the waiter brings your salads out first. Except, well, my waiter accidentally brought my potato and green beans out, too, and he seems to have forgotten the meat portion.”

Service these days! Waiters just don’t tend to your dining needs like they did in the ’50s.

Eventually, when the salads and potatoes and green beans were gone, Hubs said, “I think I’ll just go flag the waiter down and ask if he can check with the kitchen and see what the hold up on the steaks is…”

When he returned to the table, he quietly announced, “The chef said to just be patient, and he’ll have the steaks out soon.”

The boy declared, “Dad, I’m full.”

Eventually, people, the kitchen help delivered steaks to our plates, which were slathered in fancy blue cheese butter (for some) and salt and pepper (for others).

And they were delicious.

Even though we had absolutely no idea what they’d look like sitting next to a baked potato and a pile of green beans!

At least we now know the full strength of Hubs’ breaker-blowing Traeger.

This isn’t your grandmother’s grill, after all.

Oh, and we didn’t leave a tip for the waiter last night. He tried. Bless him. But Hubs and I just didn’t feel that his service was all that stellar, regardless of the fact that Hubs got a free refill on his Coke, since we had to wait so long for the steaks to cook.

Wait. That was ME who refilled Hubs’ Coke!

I’m just going to go take the nightly dose of my second generation expectorant and color rainbows on some drawing paper with Crayons now.

And thinking of the expectorant reminds me of the joke which I’ve laughed about all week.

What’s green and slides across the ice?

Peggy Phlegm, of course.

I am HER this week! Hear me roar.

Or cough.

Or whatever.

Happy Wednesday night, y’all.

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