Part of me hesitated to ever write this post. In fact, at dinner last night with our good friends, Scott tried to prompt me to tell this story, and I did the equivalent of kicking him under the table – the “I’m going to kill you if you say another word” stare down.
He backed down.
Let me preface what I am about to tell you with the fact that living in an old house is no easy feat. We have had a tough few months of figuring out errant holes, drafts that would freeze your nubs off, and just how to heat this monstracity of an 1823 farmhouse. Scott and I sometimes think back to our city apartment and realize we aren’t in Kansas anymore. I love this old place, but it’s been an adjustment.
The kitchen is in need of a renovation, but until we can stash the cash, we are simply reorganizing and making do. Excited to play hostess and reacquaint myself with my kitchen gadgets, I invited my mom and sister over for an Asian inspired dinner. I was eager to use the wok and pull out the fryer for egg rolls, one of my life’s greatest joys.
And I had avocado to put in the egg rolls, so win/win.
I went to the pantry, retrieved my toys, and chatted with my guests as I sashayed around my kitchen. So arrogant I was, so sure of my domestic skills that I could dazzle my mother (in HER former kitchen, no less) with my culinary prowess. I plugged in my fryer, opened the lid, and stopped DEAD IN MY TRACKS.
To my everlasting horror: there, belly up in a pond of used oil, were two drowned mice.
Not three, that would have been poetic justice. Two perfectly plump little vermin, just floating in my sea of wasted eggroll dreams.
I turned carefully, quietly, and smiled daintily at Scott, who was perched on a stool entertaining our guests. He knew EXACTLY what had happened (marriage telepathy) and looked empathetically back.
My mother, bless her, picked up quickly on my stoicism and asked if I had left chicken in the fryer. Oh, mother, not chicken.
Ashamed, I admitted what had transpired, and Scott rose to recuse me from further harm.
That’s not the end of the story, however. Wondering how we should proceed, I questioned “clean the fryer? Dump the mice and let it soak for weeks in detergent?” I am not a wasteful person, and this fryer had not been used more than 3 times. My mother and sister at this suggestion screamed “THROW IT OUT!” and Scott and I obliged, though not without some hesitation. If the mice had managed to get into the fryer, where else had they been in the cupboard? Everything would be emptied and cleaned, and the hole in the back of the wall would be patched instantly.
But no, they implored me to do with away with the fryer, and my mother reassured me I could buy myself a new one right away on Amazon.
Then I had to remind her it was her fryer that she left at the house. Ooops.
Had I not already started the stir fry, I would have given up and ordered pizza. But I mustered what remained of my dignity and swallowed my pride and carried on with the meal, finished my egg rolls in a pan on the stove.
And there you have it, the great Fryer Debacle of 2018. Now reassure me and tell me that SOMEONE out there would have opted to clean the fryer??
Happy Thursday, all.