I’m Not the Corn Rake Victim

You’ve said it. Probably after you’ve been quarantined with a child who whiled away the time pasting together the leg holes of all the underwear in the laundry basket with homemade silly putty.  “I’d write the story of my life, but no one would ever believe it.”

Sure, you’ve had some adventures. Like the one when you were stopped by the police one dark, foggy night while dressed as, well, a woman who wears too much makeup for a living. Okay, maybe that’s just me. But how did the world get to a point where I had to include the following paragraph when applying for an online job: 

It is important to note that I am not the woman in the Corn Rake Murder who allegedly suffered a gruesome death at the hands of her husband, an Iowa pig farmer. Even acquaintances who Google my name, Amy Mullis, are sometimes astonished that I am still alive, especially those who know me well. I am sorry for her fate, but also quite relieved that I am still around to annoy my own husband. But if you Google me, you are likely to find someone who was not so fortunate.

Granted, the Captain of my Love Boat has lived through moments when the thought of throwing me overboard was just the other side of tempting. And while it’s true that if everyone has a button that sends them over the edge and down the waterfall of madness, I tend to nest on his, he has always resisted the urge to aim a farm implement in my direction. Luckily, the closest we have to a farming tool is a pair of rusty hedge clippers that turned our dogwood tree into a weeping willow.

There was the time I crashed to the floor behind him while climbing on an antique—by antique I mean old, rickety, and unreliable—stool that he warned me not to use.

Or when I tried to round up wild dogs.

Or distributed the Easter ham to the neighborhood feral cat population.

Or when I moved all his clothes to the front door coat closet to make him feel at home when we got married.

Or when I hit the railroad tracks at high speed driving him to the hospital when his bladder was on the verge of exploding.

Maybe I’d better get rid of the clippers.

 

 

SERVED 

Why do recipes with more than three ingredients exist? I’m not counting cheese that you sprinkle on top of things. That’s not an ingredient, that’s just a law of nature.

Invariably I’m trying out an attractive new meatball on the buffet table at the Office-Wide Potluck Holiday Food Festival and Grazing Day when someone says. “This is so easy. You take 16 pounds of free range, home grown 93% lean ground tofu. . .”

Or I’m flipping through last year’s Southern Living at the dentist’s office, and I find an enticing photograph of a plate of beguiling pasta dotted cunningly with out-of-season vegetables and Beluga caviar, only to turn to the part of the recipe that wasn’t stolen in July by a truck driver with an abscess and find a list of 43 ingredients including home-harvested greenhouse oregano that everyone keeps on their pantry shelves.

My pantry is a box I got from the scratch and dent section at Home Depot. It holds an out-of-date can of cream of celery soup, a jar of Tandoori Chicken sauce that I’m scared to try, and a pack of macaroni and cheese powder in case of an Apocalyptic Event. Looking there for help is like having the heroine in a horror movie look for a flashlight in the darkened cellar.

I have a friend who could make a delicious meal with a bag of frozen peas, a can of Spaghettios, and the creative use of fresh herbs.

The only fresh herb at my house is crabgrass. I don’t see that in Martha Stewart’s “must have” items.

But I still have a trick or two up my apron. I have frozen pizza. I have caramel popcorn.

 And I have Applebee’s on speed dial.