I Know You’re Dying to Hear …
The pipes were frozen. We had no water. The news proclaimed that Vegas is experiencing record cold temperatures — and O’Ceallaigh wanted to go to the store and buy ice cream.
He also wanted to cook dinner. Fine by me. “The kitchen’s that way,” I told him. “You cook, and I’ll clean up.”
“I should warn you that I use a lot of dishes,” he responded. I should have asked him to define “a lot.” Instead — thrilled to have someone else cooking my meal — I told him not to worry about it. Next time I will ask him to try to limit himself to using less than half of the dishes on hand.
Perhaps one reason he used twice as many dishes as a normal person, is because he cooked two meals at once. One was a yummy Beef Broccoli stir fry. The other was just as yummy and I’d love to tell you what he called it, but I don’t remember. It was chicken wings in red sauce over pasta. We had it for dinner Sunday night, and for lunch on Monday.
As I was eating, the meat fell from the chicken bone and splattered red sauce on the front of my favorite blouse. I scolded OC for it. He wanted to know how my spilling food on my own blouse could possibly be his fault. I couldn’t believe he was that dense. I mean, he cooked it, so obviously it was his fault, right?
In church on Sunday, O’Ceallaigh played both the cornet and the trumpet, and sang in the choir. He was quite good and the ladies of the church swarmed him afterward. One even promised to build him his very own ocean if he would move to Nevada. Alas, he is very fond of the ocean he already has, so he declined.
I took him to the airport this afternoon and he flew away. Now my house is very, very quiet. No witty quips. No sudden bursts of laughter. No warmth.