So. We were all at breakfast this morning enjoying pancakes, apple wood smoked bacon and a big fritatta with peppers, onions and strips of zucchini. I went to the walk-in pantry for a fresh jar of my homemade salsa for the eggies only to find the cupboard bare of tasty sauce picant.
“Moth-er fuck-er!” I was pissed. “Why didn’t somebody tell me we’re out of salsa?”
I walked back into the kitchen and waved the offending last jar at the table full of formerly laid-back diners. “Who took the next-to-the-last jar from the pantry without telling me?”
The kitchen air chilled with my harsh, frosty bitch. Everyone but Gram pulled a church mouse and picked quietly at their plates. Gram, however, didn’t.
“Shut yer yapper, ya pissy little shitbird. What was ya plannin’ ta do iffn ya knowed?”
I didn’t have a good answer to that question, but not having a good answer never stops me from having something stupid to say. “I have a right to know and you guys have a responsibility to tell me.”
“Awright, fuckball, we’s outta hot sauce. Now open tha last one an’ give it ta me. My eggies er dry ’cause ya left ’em in tha oven too long.”
I can always count on my Gram to straighten my ass right up. What real difference would it make to have known we were down to one jar of sauce made from fresh produce from our garden when we’re still six weeks out from having any produce from which to make a new batch? How much more would I have obsessed about it if I had known? Answer, an entire week’s worth.
“OK, sorry, guys. I should actually thank you for not telling me. Saved me anguishing over it for the last week. I had no idea we were so low. I was just in there a couple weeks ago and there were eight or ten jars in the pantry.”
Mother still had the front page of the newspaper clenched in her fist at what was now the midway point of Sunday breakfast. She said, “Says here that our dear, sweet ex-Vice President Cheney got a heart transplant. God bless him. And there were a dozen jars week before last and I took eleven to the church for the big Fiesta party last weekend.”
Huh? She stole eleven of the last twelve jars of MY hot sauce to feed a bunch of fucking Baptists? My “top-ten in the entire world, scorch-the-skin-off-your-lips hot sauce with a secret ingredient” hot sauce was consumed by a church full of fucking Baptists?
“You what???” I half yelled. “You stole MY hot sauce and took it to church?”
“Don’t you dare yell at your mother, Mooner Einstein Johnson. Show me some respect?”
I didn’t need the fiery-hot salsa to heat me up now. “Show you respect? Show you some fucking respect? Why, I’ll show you some…”
I didn’t get anything else out. Mr. Dave rose from his chair and pointed an elegant finger my way. “Sit, and zip your lip, Mr. Johnson. I don’t want to feel required to take you outside for a lesson in manners, but I most certainly will.”
I’d never noticed that Mr. Dave has elegant hands to match his elegant pecker. Long, slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails. Fitting, I guess, that a man with a giant pecker should have good hands to hold it with.
“But,” I started, then realized what I was doing. “Aw, shit on a dinner plate and call it fudge.” Now I looked at my own hands that I’d clenched into fists. “I’m sorry for being an asshole, everybody. And speaking of assholes, did they say if they could find a heart to exchange when they cut into Mr. Haliburton, or was the new heart an add-on rather than a replacement?”
Actually, old Dicky C must have had some semblance of a heart. The one issue he and I agree upon is his support for gay rights. Then again, his support likely stems from the simple fact that his own daughter is a lesbian. Funny how spawning and rearing a gay child can effect your world views. But who gives a shit how he got there. Dick Cheney had to have a little heart.
“And I’m sorry for what I said about your idol, Mother. He must have had some sort of heart before. I have a tendency to judge by content rather than by the cover.”
That was breakfast and now I’m fixing to give the kids another shaving lesson. The cuts on my scalp and nose have healed into fresh scars and I’m feeling brave. And Mother’s theft of my hot sauce has given me an idea. What if I tell Rick Perry he can have his breast implants if he and the other animals can raise the money? I think an ostrich getting giant rubber titties is very close to a really dumb idea, but I thought liquid paper was stupid too. We’ll jar hot sauce to sell and the kids will all participate in growing the veggies. I’ll let the ostrich sell the idea, and if he can convince the dogs and fucking cat to help him, I can teach teamwork, entrepreneurship, hard work and charity, and all in one gift basket.
Multi-tasker is my middle name, and better parenting through creative thought is my game. But maybe I should hide a stash of this season’s hot sauce over to SAC Ellen’s place. Manana, y’all.