The full moon Tuesday had me feeling a bit Halloweeny. That, and the Annual Ketchup Tablecloth Yard Ornament I pass every day on the way to school. But they don't hold a candle to the sight I beheld Wednesday morning, upon entering my kitchen after leaving The Pony and Hick to their own devices with a pan of Stove Top Whole Wheat Stuffing For Chicken.
Don't hate me because I'm a gourmet chef. Hate me because I serve up the food onto the plates, and abandon my eaters. This blog doesn't write itself, you know. Genius gallivants about town until all hours. Hick spends quality time with is goats and chickens. The Pony lives to game on his laptop. So we all do our own thing in the evenings. I dished up chicken and stuffing for The Pony, and told him that if he wanted some more, to wait and see what his dad left.
Sometime between The Pony's plating, and 4:50 the next morning, a near-catastrophe stuck the stove top. In the wee hours, with only an under-cabinet fluorescent bulb to shed some light on the situation, I heard in my head the stabby music from Psycho. Picture me peering at my almond Kenmore with the face of Eddie Murphy in Daddy Day Care, the scene where he opens the bathroom door to see how Jeff Garlin's son had potty-trained himself so quickly.
Crusty crumbs of stuffing lay scattered randomly across the once-smooth metal. Some chunks had lemminged themselves over the edge to splat on the linoleum before petrifying. I am fairly confident that both Hick and The Pony are acquainted with rudimentary tools such as the serving spoon. Like the one that was left in the pan. It's not as if I left them to their own devices to experiment, like chimps poking sticks into a termite mound. A bigger mess could not have resulted from inserting a mixer into the pan and turning it to HIGH. Did they put a blob of stuffing on the spoon, and flip it at each other's mouth, perhaps? Did they tip the pan over their respective faces, and revel in a shower of stuffing? Did they try to feed from it like pigs at a trough?
The site was disturbing. Not as disturbing as when Ben Stiller got his beans above his frank in Something About Mary. Or as disturbing as when Ben Stiller played pick-up basketball in Along Came Polly, and got a mouthful of sweaty, hairy, man-boob. But it was disturbing. In a non-Ben-Stiller kind of way.
There's no explaining the mysterious power of the full moon in cahoots with Stove Top Stuffing.