It was a night much like any other when I entered my apartment. Little did I know what fate had in store for me...
I was haggard and worn coming home from my job that night. I'd just spent seven hours on the phone helping senile grandparents switch their season tickets around so they could see little Johnny or Suzie debut as munchkins at our local theatre. My voice was hoarse from shouting at slow speed into the handset; while simultaneously praying I wouldn't have to repeat myself for the third time in a row...receptionists and clerks ought to have vocal training as rigorous as any opera stars. But I had something to look forward to, even through the mental fog that enshrouded me as soon as I clocked out: Kaylee was coming to visit!
I don't often have the time to just sit and be with friends these days, so I was looking to make this evening a real treat. I had invited my friend to come over for a homecooked meal, but didn't get off work until after 8:00 pm; so, in grand Madsen tradition, we started eating around 10 o'clock.
I was particularly excited as I went about preparing the food. My husband and I went grocery shopping last week for the first time in four and a half months. (Thanks again to all our family who let us sponge their resources!) I had fresh ingredients waiting--calling to me from our once empty shelves--I was almost dizzy with anticipation! However, I did decide to keep the menu simple. After all, I was hungry now! Butter herb pasta (yes, that one was from a box) and pan-fried chicken.
Well, everything was going along swimmingly. Kaylee and I were chatting and catching up while puttering around the kitchen--sweetly serenaded by the mellow sounds of Guitar Hero in the front room, of course, courtesy of Patrick. I had just finished dredging the chicken in olive oil and flour and spices a la my inner Emeril (Bam!) and was preparing to sear them...voila! First side down in the oil and no casualties! The aroma of sizzling poultry started to infuse the air and all the stomachs in the house gave a slight gurgle of anticipation. Three minutes later and the first breast was flipped. "Oh yeah," I thought, "I'm getting good. Soon they'll be asking me to go on Food Network Challenge and show the masses how it's done." Impressed by my own flair I went to flip the second breast...and in hindsight (ha ha) was perhaps a bit overzealous...
Hiss!
At this point of the story, I would like to say that the first thought that came to my mind was: "Oh look. Little flying flecks of hot cooking oil. I shall dodge them expertly my awesome slow-mo Matrix moves." However, as you may have guessed, my actual first thought was more along the lines of: "Sweet Mother of Abraham Lincoln! My head's on fire!"
I regret to report that, as it turns out, I have no awesome slow-mo Matrix moves. None. Instead of dodging the oil the most I was able to do was close my eyes...which probably saved me a trip to the hospital. However, I can report that I was able to keep my inner panic attack in check. The stream of mental profanities and curses against poultry of all kinds was quelled by the time it actually got to my tongue and all I said out loud was: "Um, Kaylee? Could you come watch the chicken for a minute?"
I rushed to the bathroom and started to splash cold water on my eyes. And then I bit back another stream of curses as I'd forgotten that I'd actually decided to wear makeup that day; and the stinging of the burns on my eyelids was compounded by the sting of diluted mascara running into my eyes.
I don't remember much more of what happened that night. I had cold cloths pressed over my face for the next couple of hours and I discovered I would be a dismal failure as a blind person. I kept bumping into walls and doorframes and the refrigerator. And I applaud anyone who can eat reasonably well without being able to see if their fork has actually reached the plate or not. (I gave up after a few tries and went for the more infantile yet effective approach of treating everything like finger food.)
We were going to hang out for a while and make smoothies or fruit salad or something, but my little "incident" cut the evening short. There were no fruit treats for this blind bird. (I probably looked such a sight after my first eating attempt that I don't blame them for not wanting to see me try again.) Kaylee left to go back to Ogden after Patrick gallantly returned from the store with some burn ointment, and took her fruity shmorgasboard with her. Though she did leave my favorite for me...a kiwi. Patrick and I joked about me looking like some bizarre fruitbat sucking on that kiwi with my improv blindfold...You know it's true love when he's still saying I love you when your eyes look like something out of a Rocky movie with kiwi seeds stuck to your teeth and green juice dribbling down your chin...*sigh* What a night.
