Bad Day 341--There is nothing to do!

We are one day into summer vacation and already the children are bored. This must be a record. Child 1 fixed her boredom by going to the mall where she is probably spending the change she owes me from fronting her movie night last week. Child 2 never got out of her pajamas, and Child 3 already hates day camp. It is going to be a long, long summer. On the good news front, our chore chart worked well today and Child 3 actually made dinner mostly by herself and it was spaghetti and Child 2 loved it and asked for seconds. If you remember from earlier posts, this is the child who doesn't like spaghetti, or lasagna. The key, we have discovered, is using sweet Italian sausage instead of hamburger. We all like spaghetti a lot better with sausage. I'm a convert and Husband will be very happy when he returns home because he is a sausage fan, believing that it is akin to bacon, I guess.

The reason I am such a late-comer to the Italian sausage party is because of my Dad. See, in my house growing up, it was Dad who was the experimental cook. The only problem is that he is not a super-taster; he is a non-taster. We have this theory that he burned off all his taste buds at a very young age and cannot taste anything that isn't spicy enough to make your eyes water from across the room. One night when I was very little, 4 years old at the most because we moved out of that house before I turned 5, he made spaghetti with sausage so spicy it made us cry. It was inedible and famous because we still talk about it 25 years later. (OK, maybe a little more than 25, but I'm not saying exactly how many!) It was a cooking failure and he went out and got McDonald's for us to eat and we loved that and said over and over again "Mama Mia, spicy meatballs!" I think that must have been from a commercial because we are not Italian so why else would we say Mama Mia! Just checked on Google and it was a commercial.

At any rate, for years, when I heard Italian sausage and spaghetti in the same sentence it always signified something too spicy to eat, just like the cornbread Dad made with jalapenos in it, and the chili relleno that made my nose run when I walked into the kitchen. There were also some hot pickles in there somewhere, too. I avoided spicy food for years believing it was all inedible until my friend "Emily" introduced me to Thai food and I realized spicy and delicious could go together. But sweet Italian sausage is not very spicy and goes perfect in spaghetti and since we cannot use pre-made meatballs any more and I am to tired during the week to make my own gluten-free meatballs, this is a good solution. Also, Child 2 likes it, so we'll keep making it that way.

I should correct the impression that Dad is a bad cook. He makes amazing meat loaf, fabulous pot roast, and I will always be grateful to him for teaching me how to make corned beef and cabbage, which we love, love, love. But just don't let him near the peppers. I think I might hide my Szechuan spice next time he comes to visit.

This fashion model is having a worse day than me.

I know you think he is just carrying a bunch of recycling, but that is actually supposed to be a garment. You know, something to wear. I suppose that a custom-made bunch of cardboard could be a nifty urban camouflage and maybe something the military should look into, but it looks rather stupid as a sweater. But that's OK, because in London fashion week, you can also find the exact opposite look, if you like! This one camouflage's nothing.

I think my very favorite part of this look is that not only are those Capri pants for men, he is wearing them with knee socks. So thank you, British fashion industry, for proving that you also hate men. I have known for years that you absolutely disdain women, but it's nice that you go for equal opportunity embarrassment. I will pay someone money if they suggest these looks for the Department dress code. Or better yet, wear the cardboard box sweater to a country team meeting and say it was in GQ, so it must be OK to wear to work. That would make my year.