Last year in the Men's Monday night bible study small group, Bennett met a guy that actually lives in our zip code. I know what you are thinking...wow, he lives WAY out there, too? It also turns out that they have more than a zip code in common: this guy has a wife and two daughters ages 3 and 5. So, we got together.
His wife (who for the sake of this blog shall remain nameless for no apparent reason, especially since she seems like the kind of person who couldn't care less that people in this world actually spend time recording mundane daily events in a time consuming way for the whole entire world to read) is pretty nice. And I see her every week at gymnastics on Mondays where at the end we part ways and go home to our empty houses since it is, after all, Monday night. So I invited nameless friend and her girls over for dinner. And they came.
Of course I would like to say that I spent the entire day preparing for their arrival and had a lovely Martha Stewart dish in the fridge just ready to be thrown into the oven, but I did not. After all, we would be arriving home after an evening of gymnastics so I was thinking that her expectations of me would be pretty low. So I was all about living up to them.
Upon arriving, all four girls scrambled up the stairs and contentedly engaged in a dance party while nameless for no reason friend and I talked in the kitchen. The menu: my cheapest and most go to recipe, Cornflake chicken, steamfresh green beans, and blueberries.
We chatted, I prepared the food, and into the oven it went. Timer was set for 30 minutes. After 15 minutes, however, 4 very hungry blonde girls bounced down the stairs and took their places at the table and asked repeatedly when dinner was going to be ready. This started making me a little nervous. I don't know why.
Finally, the wait was over and the lovely chicken came out of the oven. I transferred the pieces onto a serving plate, smiled proudly and began walking toward the children who had been staring wide-eyed for minutes now.
But something happened. I dropped the plate. Seriously, I dropped the plate. Onto the floor. And it broke into 5 different pieces. And 7 cornflake chicken thighs slid greasily across my I haven't mopped since waaaaayyy before Christmas kitchen floor.
What do I do? I thought. I have NOTHING else. No leftovers. No bread. Kids crying...hungry...needing food. I just looked at nameless friend helplessly. Wanna know what she did? She hopped up from the table, started picking up the chicken, and then she called the 5 second rule (even though by this time it had been well over 5 seconds).
And we ate the chicken. We fed the chicken to the kids. True friends eat dirty chicken.
Nameless friend is a keeper.
His wife (who for the sake of this blog shall remain nameless for no apparent reason, especially since she seems like the kind of person who couldn't care less that people in this world actually spend time recording mundane daily events in a time consuming way for the whole entire world to read) is pretty nice. And I see her every week at gymnastics on Mondays where at the end we part ways and go home to our empty houses since it is, after all, Monday night. So I invited nameless friend and her girls over for dinner. And they came.
Of course I would like to say that I spent the entire day preparing for their arrival and had a lovely Martha Stewart dish in the fridge just ready to be thrown into the oven, but I did not. After all, we would be arriving home after an evening of gymnastics so I was thinking that her expectations of me would be pretty low. So I was all about living up to them.
Upon arriving, all four girls scrambled up the stairs and contentedly engaged in a dance party while nameless for no reason friend and I talked in the kitchen. The menu: my cheapest and most go to recipe, Cornflake chicken, steamfresh green beans, and blueberries.
We chatted, I prepared the food, and into the oven it went. Timer was set for 30 minutes. After 15 minutes, however, 4 very hungry blonde girls bounced down the stairs and took their places at the table and asked repeatedly when dinner was going to be ready. This started making me a little nervous. I don't know why.
Finally, the wait was over and the lovely chicken came out of the oven. I transferred the pieces onto a serving plate, smiled proudly and began walking toward the children who had been staring wide-eyed for minutes now.
But something happened. I dropped the plate. Seriously, I dropped the plate. Onto the floor. And it broke into 5 different pieces. And 7 cornflake chicken thighs slid greasily across my I haven't mopped since waaaaayyy before Christmas kitchen floor.
What do I do? I thought. I have NOTHING else. No leftovers. No bread. Kids crying...hungry...needing food. I just looked at nameless friend helplessly. Wanna know what she did? She hopped up from the table, started picking up the chicken, and then she called the 5 second rule (even though by this time it had been well over 5 seconds).
And we ate the chicken. We fed the chicken to the kids. True friends eat dirty chicken.
Nameless friend is a keeper.
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6 comments:
Awesome!!! Haha, Jen this is so funny!
That is so funny!!! I had no idea what to expect at the end of the story! What a suprise! HA! Cornflake chicken... it's been so long since I've had that! Maybe I'll make it tonight for dinner! But, of course, I'll make it less dirty! ;o)
What a great friend find! Now if she watches the bachelor it is all good.
Great story, Jen! Great friend. And girl, if you are cooking, we'll gladly eat some dirt along with it! Your meals always so tasty.
Sing with me....You're getting more like me,e (sing in the "nanny nanny boo boo" tune). This is hysterical!! She surely is a keeper. Yay!
I forgot to mention that I have done the EXACT same thing. With BBQ chicken fresh off the grill. Glass splinters stick to BBQ sauce!! And none of my friends would eat off my floor. I feel your pain.
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