Or: How Willow Guilted Me into Work
On Tuesday, my daughter bought us two of the grocery store rotisserie chickens for dinner. I remember her hinting strongly that we only needed one. However, I like to use the leftovers for chicken soup and even on a half-empty house, one won’t cut it for two meals with my crew. She dutifully bought what I asked. Go Jenna. (and can you please disobey me next time?)
Anyway. I was on the ball. I had dinner planned for Wednesday night and then we would have chicken soup on Thursday. That meant that I had to boil those birds, make broth, get the meat off the bones. All in a day’s work. I mean, it’s not like I had to butcher the things! They were cooked when I started!
I had another daughter (I have a superfluity of daughters–something for which I am very grateful) dump them in the Dutch oven and start the boil. And they did. For a long time (because we all forgot about them). My husband turned off the heat before he went to bed.
A couple of hours later, I remembered them. Gulp. Surely they were cold and probably unsafe. Yes. Of course they were. We’d forget the fact that I’d be reboiling it all before we ate it. Right. Didn’t need to do it.
I worked on Past Forward for a little longer until the guilt nearly strangled me. Sigh. So, instead of replacing the previously expunged “McDonald’s scene,” I went into the kitchen and tested the pot. Still hot. Drat. Resigned to my fate, I began the tedious task of removing meat from bird bones.
It took me fifteen minutes tops.
Does it say something horrible about me that my conscience knew the right thing to do but did not do it (Oh, dear… James 4:17 strikes again), but knowing that some woman who doesn’t exist at all would be shocked was enough to get me off the couch and into the kitchen?
It probably does.