WTF, It's Saturday, Sad To Say No Chicken Lollipops Today

The morning walk through my northern exposure

I've always liked the character of Lady Macbeth.  Now that may seem a bit cold, given the terrible things she set into motion, but you can't deny that she was irresistible in a pathological kind of way.  If your high school English curriculum did not included at least one Shakespeare play each year, I pity you. There is much of human nature there, that even as a callow youth I could take to heart and appreciate. Which is why I took Shakespeare at the college level, which caused me to read seven tragedies and seven comedies during the course of the semester.  Those were good days at a bad university.

The "Three Witches" from the Sisterhood of Karn

Macbeth was one of my early literary acquisitions, my third Shakespeare play, studied in my junior year of high school.  I much preferred the tragedies, which is not an odd statement from someone who has been depressed since 1957.  What stuck with me from Macbeth was not the Three Witches (although they were my first thought at the appearance of the Sisterhood of Karn in a mini-episode of "Doctor Who") but Lady Macbeth's obsessive hand washing. 

Doctor:
What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands.

Gentlewoman:
It is an accustom'd action with her, to seem thus
washing her hands. I have known her continue in this a quarter of
an hour.

Lady Macbeth:
Yet here's a spot.

Doctor:
Hark, she speaks. I will set down what comes from her, to
satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.

Lady Macbeth:
Out, damn'd spot! out, I say!—One; two: why, then
'tis time to do't.—Hell is murky.—Fie, my lord, fie, a soldier, and
afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our
pow'r to accompt?—Yet who would have thought the old man to
have had so much blood in him?

Macbeth Act 5, scene 1, 26–40

Over the years, I have developed what I call my "Lady Macbeth Hand Washing Thing" which has nothing to do with murder, guilt, or madness, but everything to do with chicken, egg wash, and meatballs.  When I cook, which is, as you know, shockingly frequent, I cannot stand the feeling of anything on my hands.  I am one of those cooks who believes that the best utensils are at the end of my wrists, like a socially acceptable Edward Scissorhands.  I have no problem using my hands to do everything short of whipping cream, but I have to be able to wash them with plenty of hand soap or dishwashing liquid and copious amounts of very hot water after each stage in the process.

Tomatoes and okra, eventually

Today's cooking problem has to do with our recalcitrant kitchen plumbing.  My ability to wash my hands, as long and as often as I will need to, has been completely compromised.  Anything I do will only add to the mess that has been building up since Thursday.

What I had planned was nothing short of OCD-handwashing-inducing. CHICKEN LOLLIPOPS. Smoked in my oven. (Hey, the temperature hasn't gone below 95 in several weeks. If you want to stand over a smoking hot gas grill for a couple of hours, be my guest.)  Fried pickle spears.  Bacon-wrapped corn on the cob.  Sloppy Josephine.  Sprightly Southern Biscuits.

SSSSSMOKIN' chips

Perhaps this is all just as well.  For the third day in a row, I am in all-over back and leg pain.  My left arm looks like it got caught in a meat-mangler. Standing to cook and wash hands is probably more than I should be doing. I guess I knew that when I went out early this morning to peruse and plan my garden, and I tired out from walking around the corner.  And I live on the corner.

Yes. I broke the board with my elbow, before the Dark Times, before the Fibromyalgia

But I've also got this hyperactivity thing - I've got a lot of things - and sitting still is not something I do well.  (You can only imagine what a joy it was to sit for the bar exam in 1991.)  The boys are both at a martial arts event, which left be alone with Woodrow, Chelsea, Indiana, Romeo, and Anakin.  You may ask how someone can be alone with that many pets, but they nap all day and I don't. So I did a bit of shopping (today, not in 1991) to pick up the remaining ingredients for the Sloppy Josephine, and that wore me out like a fast-paced taekwando belt testing with Senior Master.

Some of the ingredients for Sloppy Josephine

                 

Sloppy Josephine is the result of a culinary ménage a trois between Sloppy Joe and my recipes for Chili and Argentinian Beef Sauté, and has nothing to do with Josephine the Plumber.  As I've been working on this post throughout the day, I was absolutely certain I had published it previously, but no such luck. I'm going to have to type this puppy from scratch.  Tomorrow.

Josephine the Plumber