Kitchen God, I mean Overseer

Last night was the first night I was finally able to unpack my suitcase, survey the damage in my house, and drink two glasses of red wine (rather quickly) since I returned home from "the jewel of the San Joaquin Valley" and "the richest agricultural region in the world." I'm just a busy girl, and although I would like nothing more than to have a clean house, time to paint my toes, and the ability to eat a meal other than potato chips, the Dear Lord uses these things to teach me patience. I prayed for patience. He gave me The Rev. and he gave me the life of a PW. That's PW, not POW, although there are days I am confused.

The Rev. was so kind as the clean the bathroom that The Dad is using and vacuum our carpets. I wanted to eat something other than potato chips for dinner, so I set out to make some homemade chicken noodle soup. I also made some chocolate cupcakes with green mint frosting because today is the day we celebrate a British guy bringing Christianity to Ireland. We don't hold a special church service or anything, we just go out and drink green beer. Well, The. Rev. is a beer snob, and he doesn't drink American beer dyed green, he drinks Irish beer. I won't divulge my experiences at our favorite Irish pub in Nashville. Let's just say 4 pints of Harp causes me and my friend Theresa to take on the accent of a Brooklynite speaking Yiddish. Tonight we are drinking margaritas, because in California, it is all about equal opportunity. Besides, margaritas are light green.

Anyway, while I was putting away some dishes, I found a Christmas gift from one of my employees. It's a plastic sheep with a scowl on its face. When you push down on it, he poops out rootbeer flavored jellybeans. I decided to make him the kitchen overseer. I would call him the kitchen god, but that would be toeing the line of idolatry, and I don't want to cause The Rev. anymore grief than my habit of loafing and having the occasional potty mouth. It made me think, though, because for as long as I can remember, I have had some sort of kitchen god, I mean overseer, in my favorite room of the house. I would just pick some quirky, kitschy item, and dub it the kitchen god. When my brother and I were roommates, it was the Pillsbury Doughboy. I think he is still perched on the back of my brother's stove, actually. In Nashville, it was a bunch of mistletoe that we kept hung above the door all year. Finding Poopsie made me remember those fond memories, so he too is perched behind the stove, overseeing all the coming and goings in the kitchen. If we weren't taking The Dad out to eat enchiladas tonight, he would be overseeing the corned beef and cabbage.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day, ya'll.