Now I wish I'd gotten a picture. Sort of.
I roasted a chicken on the grill, served some of it, and realized it wasn't quite done. So I asked Pootie to turn the grill back on for me. I didn't even look. I just plopped the tray back on there and went back in. When I came back out, the tray of chicken (and its grease) was an inferno. Apparently, Pootie had turned all THREE burners on, and some of the grease had dribbled over and caught fire, resulting in a conflagration that would have made Smokey the Bear quake in his boots.
Smokey can be kind of mean.
We put it out with the fire extinguisher, threw out the charred carcass, and now I get to clean the grill today.
Thing is, I didn't want to cook dinner last night anyway. Or the night before that. Or the night before that. I am burned out. (That's to keep the fire theme going, get it? Fine. Never mind.) It's hot outside. All the time. I'm sick of the heat. I'm sick of tomatoes. I'm sick of basil. I'm sick of food. And I'm sick of myself.
So. To purge myself of the summer doldrums, here's a poem.
I’m going to quit cooking and blogging.
I’m going to quit inviting people over.
And stop going outside.
And go to bed.
And stop eating.
And stop showering.