salmonella poster boy

Browned some chicken breasts and then headed out the door to pick up  grandchildren and redistribute them to different locations around town according to our crazy summer vacation schedule.  I come home to find Big Dave actually washing out the pans, thankful that I finally cooked something and two of the chicken breasts had gone missing.  Knowing they were still raw enough to walk out the door I realize their destiny was my husband's belly. "They weren't cooked," I announce, good gawd, they were 87% raw and I am wondering if this is the last sentence I will ever say to him.  "Yeah, I thought they were kind of different."  I think he's looking greenish.

I hope he doesn't expire anytime soon as I have plans for the weekend and he is involved.  I'm heading north to Minneapolis to visit my friend Jane and he needs to drive half of the commute.  Jane will pick me up at a Sunshine market in Chatfield, Minnesota as I do not do highways.  Nothing that involves speed has ever agreed with me and that reminds me of my first and last horse ride, barreling down the hillside and I am clinging sideways to Old Bessie, my arms and legs wrapped around her belly and back, my face buried in her shoulder.  I was twelve years old and I knew I was about to die and my friend, Mary Agnes who slapped that mare's butt and got it all going, is laughing so hard she wet her pants.  I am still uncomfortable around large animals.

Jane is the one person who understands my addiction to fountain diet Coke in large unbiodegradable cups filled with luscious, crunchy ice.  It's what friends are for - they either share your addictions or allow you them without judgment and Jane qualifies for the first group.