I’ve progressed from a splint to a cast for my fractured wrist. Wearing a cast is not only awkward and frustrating, but can lead to a life of crime. My cast extends from the base of my fingers halfway up my arm. Theoretically I should be able to use my fingers, but they are still sore and swollen and not good for much, including:
4. Applying makeup and beauty products
5. Anything else
Consequently, I’ve spent a lot of time this week learning to adapt and admiring the surfer girl who had her whole arm bitten off by a shark.
Some of the crimes I’ve committed have not been serious. I’ve been driving all over the road and failing to use turn signals, because I can only hold the wheel with my right hand, and it hurts to even flick the signal with my injured hand. In Alabama, though, that’s pretty much considered normal driving for all but the biggest sticklers.
My fashion crimes have been more serious. I have called a temporary truce in the Breast Wars because I am unable to fasten any bra at all by myself. Thus, I’ve gone without. That leaves me with the nipple problem, which has forced me to dress in layers to hide my headlights. Even that isn’t foolproof, so I’ve resorted to throwing on strings of beads in order to direct attention to the bright, shiny colors and away from my chest.
My fashion felony? Dressing like an Olsen twin.
Longtime readers know I’m pretty adamant about fixing a decent dinner where we all sit down and try to enjoy each other’s company. That’s been a challenge now that I can’t do much more than turn on the faucet. Last night after we finished dinner, I had Bill help me make one of his favorite dishes, Beef Balls In Red Wine Sauce, for us to eat the next night. When I say he helped me, I actually mean that I carried as many of the ingredients as I could over to the counter and coached him through the entire process.
He mixed the meat with thyme, paprika, salt and pepper, and formed it into large balls.
“A little bigger– no, not that big or they won’t brown all the way through,” I said in my nicest voice, inwardly cringing at the odd sizes of balls he was producing.
While I browned them, he chopped onions, carrots, celery and garlic and added them to the pan.
“If you could chop those just a little smaller, honey, sometimes the boys will accidentally eat a piece of vegetable without realizing it,” I hinted. Surely he wanted carrots to end up inside our boys, not pushed around on their plates.
Bill frowned at me, so I concentrated on my balls. I managed to stir the veggies a little and sprinkle a few tablespoons of flour over the mixture. Bill opened some cheap red wine, chicken broth, and a can of tomato sauce, all of which he poured into the pan while I hovered over his shoulder, making sure he got the proportions exactly right. I added a cup of water by myself and then we supervised baths and homework while the Beef Balls simmered, covered, for forty-five minutes.
I let them cool on the stove while we tucked in the boys. I was unable to lift the pot to put it into the refrigerator for the night, so I left it while I spent eleventy billion hours moving the clothes from the washer to the dryer, piece by piece. I’d get Bill to put the balls in the fridge later.
This morning the pot was still on the stove. Under normal circumstances I’d have thrown the whole thing away, for fear the Beef Balls In Red Wine Sauce had turned into the Beef Balls Of Plague And Poison.
But things are different, so we’re eating the damn beef balls anyway, in the belief that the overnight process both aged the beef and let the flavors marry in a pleasing way. I’m going to boil the hell out of it first, however, just in case my theory (and the meal) is a crock of shit.