Why Scrambled Eggs Remind Me of My Cat

I had a friend named Kristine when I was little. We met in Sunday School and quickly became friends because we shared a name and because were wearing the same sweater the day we met. It was red and black with several black bows attached to the front. It was pretty stylin’.

Kristine and I would go to one another’s houses almost every Sunday after church. At her house we’d play outside in the tree fort or their motor home, inside throwing things down the laundry shoot and we’d even go down the street at her neighbor’s house so we could jump on their trampoline.

Kristine’s family had a few farm cats around, and one Sunday, one of the momma kitties introduced us to her new litter. I fell deeply in love with the runt. I felt bad that he was small and I felt even worse when Kristine’s dad explained the likely fate of a runt. I scooped him up, called my parents and begged them to let me bring the little guy home.

I had to do a lot of begging, but I got to bring Runt home. We’d only ever had a pet dog that we called our own. Her name was Jessica. We had all sorts of stray cats and dogs wondering around, but Jessica was ours. She got run over by a cement truck right in front of my brothers and me one day while we were out with our mom who was turning on the irrigation pump. But that’s another story for another time.

Runt was a playful kitty and grew to be one of the larger cats I’ve ever seen. He enjoyed attacking his rainbow colored bear and joining me in a game of “chase your brothers around the house.” He was so playful that my second-grade self decided that his name should be Playful.

Yes. I named a cat a verb. I was in second grade, ok!

Playful, in true farm cat form, would sometimes take his playfulness a little too far. Without notice, he would attack, claws bared and sharp teeth glinting. We quickly learned that he didn’t enjoy being petted anywhere but his head. Once in a while, he’d let us stroke his back, but if you liked your hands, legs and even face scar free, it behooved you to stick to his head only.

Playful, being the lucky animal we called our real pet, was allowed to come in the house from time to time. Other animals had to tough it outside 24/7.

Now, the moment you’ve been waiting for…

Sometimes he even got bowls of leftover salmon. What a lucky kitty!

If we ran out of cat food, I’d scramble an egg in the micro for Playful. Good golly did he love scrambled eggs. I think he liked how it kept his coat shiny. He’d scarf them right up and then go back outside to hunt gophers, birds and the occasional, unfortunate, bunny.

Playful was in our lives until the fall I went to college. My mom called me at school to let me know that shortly after I left for WSU, Playful disappeared. They hadn’t found him anywhere, but she just wanted me to know. I was ok with that, he was old. However, I did like to pretend he was roaming the Palouse in search of me because he missed curling up, one foot over the other, next to me on my bed. And no one else at home was going to make him a scrambled egg.

I went home for Thanksgiving break my freshmen year. At some point during the week, my brothers were outside raking leaves, and I was inside helping mom in the kitchen. There was a tap on the window by the kitchen sink so I stood on my tiptoes to find the source. It was my bro Matt. He had a sly grin on his face and then he said, “Hey Chris, I found your cat!” As he said “I found your cat” he lifted up the pitchfork. Lying (not speared) across it, legs crossed, was the barely-there (and still furry, sorry) carcass of my cat.

Playful had passed in his sleep, right in the bushes lining our back yard. I can’t really remember my reaction to the cat on the pitchfork…I probably yelped, chuckled and felt a twinge of sadness, especially because my theory of Playful on the Palouse was busted...but I do remember grabbing a shovel and going out in the orchard with Matt to bury the ol’ Playful.

Playful on the Palouse…now there is an interesting movie name.

Talk about Gourmet!

I microwaved myself a scrambled egg last night for a quick dinner between getting home from work, washing the dishes and heading out to OAG, a weekly church small group gathering.

Whenever I make scrambled eggs in the micro, I think of my friend Sarah. And here’s my roundabout way of telling you why:

Sarah and I met our freshmen year at WSU. We were/are such good buddies that we rented an apartment together our senior year. During our senior year, she would kindly wake up early to drive me to a work (at one of the various campus espresso carts) and I would stay up late to pick her up from work (at one of the various campus convenient markets). That’s what friends are for, right?

Right?

Ride sharing actually started in the spring of our freshmen year. I landed myself a gig with the campus espresso carts, but twice during the first week of work, I had stayed up most of the night with a friend in need. I panicked when I awoke from dozing off and realized I only had 10 minutes to get back to my hall (up the hill), get out of my PJs and get to work across campus (up and down another hill). I ran back to good ol’ Community Hall, rapped on Sarah’s door and begged her to drive me to work. She had been lucky enough to have a (crimson?) parking pass which got her a sweet parking spot right behind our hall. My car was parked in the blue lot by the coliseum, about a mile away and a hill away.

Sarah graciously drove me to work that first day, in her forest-ranger green colored jeep, and she did so later that week when I had been up all night again. I’m still grateful for her doing that -- it was my first week after all, and I was mortified that I was late. Twice. I was lucky to keep my job.

Back to the egg. I still worked at campus carts my senior year (no doubt because of Sarah driving my late bootie to work my freshmen year!). During our first week as seniors at WSU I had a 6 a.m. start time at the CUB campus cart (RIP old CUB. RIP). Sarah got up to drive and while I finished getting ready, eyes half open, I asked if she could pop an egg in the micro so I could eat on the way to work.

“An egg? Um, ok,” she said, eyes half open.

About 25 seconds later I heart a POP! and a YELP! from the kitchen.

I thought everyone scrambled eggs in the micro from time to time…apparently it was just an Emerson thing. Sarah had never heard of this before so she popped an egg -- in the shell -- in the microwave, just as I had asked.

That egg exploded.

Stinky, exploded egg easily frustrated us at 5:45 a.m. – especially because I’m sure we were nursing a welcome-back-week party hangover. We laugh about it now though, and thanks to that explosion, I’m known in Sarah’s family as the one who introduced them to the microwaved scrambled egg.

Imagine going through life not leaning on the microwaved scrambled egg for a quick snack, breakfast or dinner before bible study! Where would these families be with me? I imagine they’d be hungry during bible study and/or stuck washing icky cooked-on egg from sauté pans for the rest of their lives.

There you have it. The reason scrambled eggs ala microwave remind me of my friend Sarah.

They also remind me of my old cat, but that’s another story for another time.

In the meantime...

We've been waiting for both cars to return to us so we could post a post about how the prodigal cars have returned.

However, it appears that the Mazda Tribute is more of a problem child/car than its sibling, my first born/bought car, the Mazda 3.

This seems to go along with the idea of sibling birth order in families, doesn't it? The first born tries to stay out of trouble while the second one likes to see just how far the rubber band of patience stretches before it snaps.

Snaps!

We love both cars just the same, and upon the Tribute's return home to our apartment parking lot, I plan on yelling out to Justin, "Quick! Bring the best car cover and put it on him. Put an air freshener on his rear-view mirror and new tires on his rims. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let's have a feast and celebrate. For this car of mine was damaged and is back to normal again; he was hurt and is repaired."

Ben, the repairman, said the car part they're waiting on should arrive tomorrow and that we should expect to get it back early this week (although that's what they said last week...). We'll keep ya posted.

We know you've been wondering...

PS -- I'm not going to spend too much time thinking about the fact that I wrote "first born car." I know it's weird I did so in the first place, but I typed it out without first pulling up the mental image.

PPS -- To Joe/Curtis and all other middle/second born children of the world. You know your oldest siblings love you immensely. And not just because you were able to create enough drama so that the attention was off of we older children long enough so we could act out and no one would notice. Promise :)

PPSS -- Special thanks goes out to Jesus' "The Parable of the Lost Son" for inspiring that last bit. You can read the original parable in the bible in Luke, chapter 15.

PPPSSS -- We have reason to believe a slug is living in my rental car. Reason: there is a slug trail running the length of the backseat and it then the trail trails to the front seat. It could have been moving the opposite direction, but either way, I find it quite disturbing. A slug!??

Wake me up when September ends

This is the car that rear ended Justin TODAY.

This is the back of the RENTAL CAR Justin was driving at the time.

It was one of those moments where you’re stopped in traffic, look in the rear-view mirror and say out loud: Oh, that car isn’t going to stop.

And it doesn't.

Thankfully, everyone is OK (again), though Justin’s neck is a bit more sore this time.

In the words of Green Day, wake me up when September ends.

A Tale of Two Mazdas

It's a good thing we have only two cars.

I'm not sure how many more stress knots our backs can handle.

And I'm also sure that our insurance representative wouldn't answer the phone if she saw our number pop up again.

Over the course of two Fridays, last Friday, Sept. 10th, and yesterday, Sept. 17th, we've managed to send both of our rides, the Mazda 3 and the Mazda Tribute, to the Mazda repair shop. Thankfully, only the cars had to go to the hospital. Neither one of us or the other drivers did.

This is the Mazda 3 that Justin was driving Friday, Sept. 10th:


He got front-end T-boned by a gal with a learner's permit, who was accompanied by someone with a suspended license, as she turned to cross 4 lanes of traffic, only to find that not all the lanes had stopped to let her through. The impact, which wasn't at a high rate of speed, thank goodness, pushed the car up and onto a curb and into a pole. The other side of the car had a flat tire and the bumper is bent out a bit.

Outside damage doesn't look too bad, but there are a few things to deal with inside. Thankfully, Justin left without a scratch, as did the two ladies. He was just a bit sore for a few days.

This is the Mazda tribute that was parked innocently on the side of the road on Friday, Sept. 17th, while I was working away inside the store.

I would like to point out that I had in fact parked within the real parking lines, so the Tribute was pushed up a good 4 feet or so, with the emergency brake on.

A fellow apparently ran into the Mazda. Some of the store employees heard it, saw the truck leave, and came inside to deliver the bad news. We all assumed it would have been a hit and run, but the fellow came back, we chatted and he left again to go get his insurance info.

In the meantime I called the PD to ask for someone to come by in the event we needed a case report or something. The kind officer simply facilitated the exchange of our information, said she enjoyed shopping at our store, and then went about her business.

We had the Tribute towed to the fix-it place because the damage was near the gas tank and things had been pushed up near the tire and I wasn't too comfortable with the idea of driving it over to the East Bay to our friendly repairman.

So now Justin and I each have a rental car. He has a silver Ford Fusion and I have a blue Nissan Altima. By the way, State Farm and Grange Insurance have been wonderful to work with during these events.

It's been a fun ride. No pun intended. We're just thankful all drivers involved are ok!

Oh the 17th

Though it's technically the 18th, I, along with a few others, think of the 17th as the day we lost Matt. It was the 17th in the U.S., but the 18th in Iraq.

I miss you so much, Tiller!!

(Matilda is what I used to call Matt from time to time. I eventually shortened to Tiller, and he would answer to it, so it stuck!)

Today is also Steven's birthday. Miss you too, bud!

Chronicles of the Open Hearted

Dad's recovery is still going quite well and we are so thankful! Overall, he was in good spirits in the hospital and as I said in an earlier post, dad sure does know how to butter up the nurses! He even got some of the most hardcore, tough-as-nails nurses to warm up to him after a while. I have a feeling that doesn't happen too often.

Dad moved from the ICU to a general recovery floor after a few days so we were able to go to and from his room more freely. (The ICU is kept locked and you have to buzz in and out, asking for permission each time. And I'm glad they do -- you don't want just anyone walking into the ICU.) He had a few more visitors once he was in his new room, including this lovely lady:

She was a gift from my mom's ladies group. She kept the nursing staff entertained, too, but after a day we had to take her home because dad kept startling himself when he'd wake up and see a near-naked lady at the foot of his bed!

The day before dad went home, it was just the two of us in his room as mom went to work. In between his naps and pain pills, or over lunch, we'd chat about this and that, and there were a couple topics that dominated our conversations (pain pills may loosen your lips, but they do not enhance memory). One topic being the material on TV these days, and the other being the hospital food.

Every once in a while, dad would flip through the TV stations, find something somewhat interesting, and then doze off. When he'd wake up, the show had since changed or he had pushed a button in his sleep, so he'd usually wake up wondering how in the world he'd ended up watching a strange cartoon or why he had settled on BET or the TLC network. His just out-of-a-nap confused look was usually coupled with, "There really isn't anything good on TV these days, is there. We have all the channels in the world and there isn't anything decent on here!" Which was usually followed by "Zzzzzzzz."

The other topic, the food, was always good for a laugh. I think that knowing he'd soon have to follow my mom's new heart-healthy diet on a regular basis, made the flavorless hospital food that much more flavorless. Right before they brought him lunch the day before we went home, he started singing:

"I love non-fat food
I love non-fat food
I hate hamburgers
I love turkey burgers
I hate pizza
I love Mrs. Dash, even though it tastes like the dust from the air after I've mowed the orchard.
Boooo Hoooo!"

Then he offered me his minestrone soup saying, "Chris, do you want my soup? It doesn't have any flavor, I'm sure. I mean, they don't put any salt in anything in this place. I haven't had enough salt in the last 4 days to give a slug a backache!"

So I ate his soup. He was right about the no salt, too.

We got him home without a hitch on Tuesday the 31st. Here's a pic of our guy in the car on the way home, all strapped in with his heart pillow.

It was wonderful to be home during his first few days out of the hospital. I helped get his medications organized and made sure he did what the doctors wanted him to do daily (take his medication, write down his weight & temperature, practice his lung expansion machine, etc.). He slept most of the time, so I just sat at the opposite end of the living room doing my work and paying close attention to any changes in his breathing, waking him up and asking if he was hungry or needed another pain pill.

Aside from the pain pill part, I'm sure this is similar to what one does the first week home with a newborn.

Eating was the tricky part, simply because the doctor said he can eat whatever for the first week or so as he heals, but mom has mostly heart-healthy food in the house, and I didn't feel right slathering butter on a piece of white bread for a man who just had 5 bypasses. Eventually, we did find a few things to eat that rode the fence in terms of health and he was a happy camper, especially after mom brought home Kaiser rolls so dad didn't have to eat the "14-grain bread that smelled like what I used to feed the steers on the farm." :)

I had more of an appetite than dad did the first few days home, and during his naps I found my mind preoccupied by a bag of Cheetos I'd spotted earlier in the week in the "candy drawer." I sat there and stewed about them for the better part of his second day home, thinking about how it wouldn't be nice of me to sit in front of a heart patient and munch on a bag of Cheetos.

It got to a point where I told myself it would be better for everyone if I, the one person in the house who had not had open heart surgery, ate the Cheetos.

Plus, I'd gotten to the point where I swore I could hear Chester Cheeta calling my name, so I tip-toed into the kitchen to rescue the orange delights.

I opened the bag as I walked from the kitchen back to the living room...I couldn't be bothered with waiting until I was reseated...but wouldn't you know it, I was overcome with excitement and opened the bag using too much force, which sent the Cheetos flying all over the dining room.

Serves me right :)

I ate them anyway.

Then I swept and mopped the kitchen and dining room floors that night.

Besides that, by the time I went home, I'd proven myself as a bona fide nurse for ol' pops and he let me sign his heart pillow...on the side he reserved for hospital staff only :)

On Sunday the 5th we left for home. Justin had been able to rearrange his vacation schedule so he was in Washington the same week I was, but just on the other side of the state visiting his family. He drove over to Grandview on Friday the 3rd, helped with a few odds and ends, like mowing part of the orchard and rewiring the TV/stereo, and then we drove back to California together.

We've been back for a week and a bit now, but I'd really rather be playing nurse and eating sneakily Cheetos in a dark corner of my parents' house.

Thank you all again for your prayers and well wishes :) As I said, Dad is healing well, but his legs, where they "harvested" the veins for the bypasses, are giving him a bit of pain. The legs bothered mom, too, as the blood and veins have to reroute themselves after they're removed, so not only are the incisions a bit painful, the insides of his legs are in pain as well, but they'll get better!