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Tuesday 03 August |
Saint of the Day: St. Martin

What’s for supper? Vol. 34: In which we all die

Simcha Fisher - published on 05/06/16

It was on Tuesday of this week that I first started saying, “Whew, at least it’s finally Friday.”

But it wasn’t.

I am not sure if I can fully convey how stupid this week was, but I will try.

When it first began, we had no idea what we were in for. We thought we had a busy week coming up, but nothing we couldn’t manage.

Tailgate Ham and Swiss Sandwiches (there are a bunch of amazing, thrilling, and infuriating sandwich ideas at this site, Saveur)

These sandwiches were tasty! Mini ham and swiss rolls covered with savory sauce and baked until fabulous. I’m very glad to know this recipe for future parties.


I think I’ll use way way way less butter next time, though. They more than met Dr. Nick Rivera’s criterion for the kind of food we’re apparently seeking out.


It’s your window to weight gain!
Roast chicken with gravy, mashed potatoes, string beans; apple crisp with ice cream

Sunday was supposed to be Lucy’s First Holy Communion and then an afternoon party with a bunch of guests, and I was planning stuffed shells, garlic bread, salad, and a stained glass cake. But she suddenly got violently sick on Saturday night.

Possibly a case of too much damn ham, right? Poor kid. We reluctantly cancelled FHC plans, to be on the safe side, and started rearranging our schedule. We went ahead and did the final shopping and packing for my son, who was off for a week-long nature camp with his class. With the day suddenly free of parties, I relaxed and had a nice, peaceful day cooking with the kids.

FullSizeRender (4)

Shortly after this, it became abundantly abundantly abundantly clear that we were dealing with . . .

dun dun dun . . .


So much vomit. So much vomit.

The rest of the week was an insane amalgam of sick people doing everything backwards (sleeping through the day and wandering around at night, normally hungry people refusing sips of water, normally workaholic people barely able to peels their heads off the pillow) and non-sick people rushing around like maniacs (work, choir practice, interviews, field trips, doctor appointments). There was a lot of pounding on bathroom doors and a lot of, “Well, I told you I had to get in there.”

One kid was sick throughout the weekend, and recuperated on Sunday, so we kept her home from school on Monday. On Tuesday, she was better but we forgot to wake her up, so she missed school. On Wednesday, she was fine, but we forgot to wake her early for a field trip, so she missed school. We kept on sleeping through alarms, because there really hadn’t been any night to speak of. That was the day I went to pick up Corrie from the arms of my almost-dead husband, and didn’t realize Benny had crept into our bed with another werewolf dream, and so I sat on her. So it was like that.

Complete blur. Lots of bowls.

Hot dogs without buns, grapes, because a few of the children were still able to work their jaws.

Chicken nuggets because the dog expected it.

Roast chicken thighs, rice, salad. 

By Thursday, I was just so tired of everything being crazy, I got mad, and I was determined to get back into some kind of normal routine, even though I ended up making something like seven trips into town and back, and even though we’re in a diocese that actually has Ascension Thursday on actual Thursday.

But dammit, I roasted those chicken thighs. My husband was feeling almost completely better at this point, but we were so accustomed to feeling terrible that he made a big batch of margaritas in honor of Cinqo de Gringo. Tequila is the one kind of alcohol that makes me do really stupid things, so I usually stay away. Turns out when you’re old and decrepit, having a second large margarita is about as stupid as it gets.

I feel fairly hung over today, but that’s mostly because I ate some of the marshmallow fluff I put in the car as a crowd-calming measure. I had brought the baby and four-year-old along with me on the fifth trip out, because I had left them in the care of my teenage son for the previous jaunt, and when I got back, he screamed, “OH THANK GOODNESS.” (He’s not normally a screamer.) Apparently he had spilled hot chicken grease on his arms, and then on the floor, and I guess he cleaned it up with some baby shirts? And then the baby was crying, so I guess he gave her some rotten ham? The dog ate a bunch of feathers. There was bird seed all over the house, again. Anyway, I elected to bring her with me after that.



Did you know it’s not just in cartoons that your eye starts twitching after a while?

My son should be home from camp today, so we’ll find out whether we sent him off in time to miss the stomach bug, or maybe we didn’t and he infected everyone and we’re the worst people in the world. There’s a formal concert tonight, and another one tomorrow, and Saturday is my son’s birthday, and of course that First Communion party is Sunday.

My husband asked me what I wanted to do for Mother’s Day, which is also Sunday. I feel like the only answer is more tequila. It’s my window.

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