I had a dream last night that I made blueberry chicken. I can honestly say that it was the very first time I have ever dreamed about cooking. When I go to bed at night and dream, I do it to escape all the cooking that has to happen in real life. But there I was last night, standing in a kitchen that I didn’t recognize. Apparently, I had made a blueberry paste, of sorts, but that step was already done when the dream opened. So, you know, maybe I DIDN’T make it; maybe I simply hollered out at the Schwan’s man as he drove past, “Hey! I need a package of your frozen blueberry sauce, so I can dip my chicken in it!”
Clearly, I shouldn’t take credit for the blueberry paste. Although I assume I made it, I can’t be certain.
I had an enormous stack of boneless, skinless (thank heavens!) chicken breasts beside me, and I kept dipping them into the blueberry paste, and then I was frying them.
(And now I’m totally humming, “I can bring home the bacon, and fry it up in a pan…” My mind is a crazy thing, and yes… it really IS exhausting being me.)
(But we’re discussing blueberry chicken… not blueberry bacon, so it doesn’t matter that I can fry THAT up in a pan.)
And that, people, was the entire dream. Dip the chicken in the blueberries; fry it. Remove it from the pan and stack it. I had stacks and stacks of fried-up chicken, and I remember thinking that I didn’t have enough Tupperware containers to store it all in.
And then I woke up. When I told Hubs about my dream this morning, he simply sighed and asked, “Blueberry chicken?” Because GROSS! And then he said, “You should just stick to what you know, honey; stick to Ramen noodles.”
So do you know what I did just a few minutes ago? Well. I employed my Google-ing skills, and I did a search on blueberry chicken, and IT IS A REAL THING.
(Unlike the Sasquatch.)
(And the Yeti.)
(And Iron Man.)
There are real recipes for blueberry chicken. Blueberry chicken salad. Grilled chicken with blueberry compote. Baked blueberry chicken. The possibilities are endless, and, until my dream, I had never even HEARD ABOUT blueberry chicken.
Let a dream interpreter take over on this one.
But that’s not what I had to tell y’all about this evening. It’s just sometimes I take off with a topic, and blam! I’ve written a thousand words, and I never even got to the important part of the post.
What I wanted to share tonight is simply this: The boy had a band concert this week, and low! We had to go into the city (which involves parallel parking) and buy him a pair of black slacks and a white shirt, because apparently the dress codes for band performances are VERY STRICT. It was sort of like he was in a private-school band class, as a note came home that announced, “Black dress pants. White shirt. Tie. Black socks. Black shoes. No exceptions.”
Of course the boy rocked the dress code and looked rather handsome… like he was ready to talk about trust funds or the fair market value of stocks in Facebook or IS IT A WISE CHOICE TO JUST BUY GOLD BRICKS RIGHT NOW?
I won’t lie to you, either. The boy has been able to single-handedly bring sexy back with the tie for many years. I’d like the jury to consider this next photograph as Exhibit A, as they make the decision that TRULY! The boy makes a tie look good, even at the tender age of seven.
I wish that I had some better pictures of the performance, because I can hear everyone whispering, “JUST TAKE A PHOTOGRAPHY CLASS ALREADY, MAMA!” But that’s how I roll here… bringing you mediocre photography for the past three years now. I have no idea where to set my F-stop or my aperture or my ISO or if I need the flash or don’t need it when I’m in an auditorium. And then I think, WHAT ABOUT THE WHITE BALANCE? And then I need to lie down a little bit, because I can hear my brain sizzling.
So these pictures are discolored and barely in focus.
The 6th grade band did a marvelous job, because their band teacher is an angel. I truly believe he hides his wings under his tuxedo jacket. Hubs and I have looked at one another numerous times and said, “Do you know what career I could never, ever do? BEGINNING BAND TEACHER!” I’d rather saw my big toe off without anesthetic than endure a room filled with twelve-year-olds and clarinets and saxophones and DRUMS, PEOPLE! THE DRUMS!
But Mr. M. did an outstanding job of wrangling this group of kids, and Hubs and I were stunned at how well they all played together.
Thing 2 went with us to the concert, because Thing 2 loves music. Hubs and I were a titch concerned about how the evening would pan out, because the boy’s concert began at 7:00 PM, which is exactly Thing 2’s bedtime. Our expectations for good behavior from the baby were at an all-time low, because tired babies tend to snap. We got an aisle seat, so that we could beat a hasty exit, if Thing 2 decided to wail his disapproval to the crowd.
Thing 2 was mesmerized with the boy’s 6th grade concert.
Plum, dadgum mesmerized. He sat in my mom’s lap, and he clapped his hands, and he watched with incredible wonder.
Of course, it also helped that Hubs kept handing dry Cheerios to him.
Well, the 6th grade band took seats in the auditorium, and the 7th grade band came onto the stage for their performance. They had one VERY LIVELY song, with drumbeats aplenty, and Thing 2 decided that, “You know what? I’m going to dance to this one!”
He stood up in my lap, and he jumped like gang members only wish they could get their low-rider cars to do. He jumped and he jumped and he jumped, like a kangaroo on a trampoline. He waved his arms exactly like the conductor did. He shook his head back and forth; he SWUNG his head back and forth; he nearly snapped his head off of his neck with all the back and forth movement. And then he yanked his left sock off, and he shook that for all he was worth in his hand, exactly like it was a wand to conduct the performance with.
And, quite by accident, Thing 2 let go of his sock on a backward swing of his arm, and it shot two rows behind us.
After the concert, we were approached by an endless sea of people who said, “I never saw the 7th graders play! I was too busy watching Thing 2 DANCE!”
That baby has some moves, people.
After the performance, I made the boys all stand together, because TIES! TIES! TIES! And because Kellen is actually wearing a collard shirt for the second time in his entire life!
The boys’ buddy, Quinn, is not in the 6th grade band, but he asked his mama to bring him, so he could show his support for Enzo, Kellen and the boy. Quinn sat in the audience and clapped and clapped, and laughed when Thing 2 flung his sock over two rows of peoples’ heads. And then Quinn said that he wasn’t worthy of a picture with his friends, because he wasn’t wearing a tie. He said he’d show his unworthiness by sitting lower than the best-dressed men.
These boys have grown up together. They’ve laughed together, they’ve cried together. They’ve kicked one another, hugged one another, and made silly faces at one another. They’ve hit baseballs together, thrown footballs together, built rockets together, and eaten tons of pizza together. They’ve griped about homework together, they’ve talked about good teachers together, and they’ve had lunch at school with one another every day for years. They’ve slept on our family room floor… on Enzo’s family room floor… on Kellen’s floor and Quinn’s floor.
They’re an exceptional little wolf pack. These pictures don’t include everyone, but my heart is proud of each of these boys. They have added so much brightness to our boy’s childhood.
Y’all have a very merry weekend, and if you have some extra time on your hands, there are some lovely blueberry chicken recipes on the World Wide Web that you could try.