I made more hummos. I made chicken and artichoke skewers. I made pita points for dipping in the hummos. I made bacon scallops for hours d'ourves.
Now, one of my favorite things in the world when I go to a catered event is the blessed bacon scallop. You know, a gorgeous scallop wrapped in a nice slice of bacon... cooked just right, seasoned just right. Pop it in your mouth, savor it. A joy. A burst of happiness.
Before I met Doug I refused to eat any seafood. I'd been brainwashed by my mom to hate it. She grew up on Cape Cod and hates seafood. So in turn, she made us hate it. It wasn't until I actually tried some things that I began to like it. And scallops are one of my favorites. As long as they are fully cooked, and don't have sand in them. Meh!
I got to make bacon scallops, and let me tell you, they are a bitch and a half to make. They are gross to make, of course, because bacon is fatty when it is par cooked and you have to wrap the poor little scallop in a piece of bacon that doesn't lay straight because it got shrivelly on one side and had more fat over here, and the toothpick won't go in and goddamnstupidpieceofshitthingfellapart AGAIN!!!!
So the next time you are at an event, and these are offered, think of the pain in the ass it is to wrap those slippery little suckers up, and say a quick thank you for your catering prep person.
Catering man made us lunch, which is one of the big perks of working for him, I tell you what. He does a killer sandwich. He grilled us up chicken strips, put them on gorgeous bread, honey mustard and mayo, fresh onion, lettuce and tomato... I could have eaten ten sandwiches. Good thing he only made me one.
I also got to grill red peppers on the gas stovetop by placing them on the grate and rotating them until the entire pepper surfaces were blackened. It was wild. I've never done anything like that before. Hot damn!
Catering man rocks. But my back is killing me ten ways from Sunday. I have never been in good shape, even when I was thinner, but now that I'm old and grey and fatter than I've ever been, the old back muscles are having a hard time supporting the collective fatness of my being. Damn. I got into the car when I went to leave and lifted my left leg into the car.
Lifted it, damnit!
So I'm resolved to improve the way the body feels. Catering man told me he started running a week or so ago, every other day, one mile. He's in good shape, he certainly isn't fat or anything... but he wants to run in the Falmouth Road Race this summer and has to be in tip top shape to do so.
So he is starting slowly... and will build himself up. I am not going to start running, but I certainly am going to start to improve my lower back and lower abdomen, so I can stand for quite a while. My legs are getting stronger from standing and don't hurt at all today. I took a huge hot shower when I got home, aiming the heat right at my lower back. I took a few ibuprofen. I will maybe have a drink with dinner. That should relieve a lot of the stiffness and discomfort. That and a great night's sleep.
The perils of being a fat ass who sat at a computer for five straight years or more, and did nothing to counter act the atrophy of the body...
and, even though I took the shower, my hands still smell like bacon. MEH!
At our church on Saturday night we're having a Lenten Organ concert. I know. It sounds thrilling. I'm in choir, so I have to be there... but the best thing is that I love our organist. His name is Chuck, and he's got a really super sense of humor and is so talented and wonderful. He is really proud of his organ (he likes the double entendre of "organ" and uses it as often as he can, tongue in cheekly) and recently took a local cable TV show crew through the back of the instrument to show them all the history in there. It is over 125 years old, and until the 50s was hand bellowed pumped. Then the put and electric blower in there.
He kept saying things like "this guy came in here and jacked the organ..." he must have said "jacked the organ" ten times, meaning fixed it... not... stroked it. And that cracked me up to no end... his snide little smirk, his heavy thick Eastern Massachusetts accent. What a riot.
So I watched the cable TV broadcast of the history of his organ (bwa ha) and had this incredible feeling of admiration and appreciation flood over me, and felt like crying. Rock on chuck. Keep slammin' your organ!
The music he's chosen for the service is heavy, heavy, heavy stuff for Lent. Super duper inner reflection, sorrowful stuff. We're doing a Bach piece, and I'm the only alto who is able to be there. So he carefully went through the alto line for me three or four times for this one song.
"You know, Bach had an alto daughter," he tells me.
"Yeah," I retort, "he must have hated her."
"Why do you say that?" asked the choir director.
"Look at this stupid alto line! He must have hated her so much to write alto lines like this... torture and death."
I have a feeling I'm screwed. I can't actually read music well. I'm a super singer, when I know the part by heart. So Chuck will sometimes play the alto line very strongly for me, and lead me... and that makes me feel like he cares. I appreciate that so much from him. I think he likes me more than Bach liked his daughter.
So that's my update kids. I'm wiped. I am subbing tomorrow, and sure hope I'm not limping from class to class. God, that'll make me look like an addled freak. I have to go make supper, and get my family situated. I had more to write, but meh. Meh meh meh. I'm too tired.
Whine, bitch, moan, complain. Who needs me. Not you!
More tomorrow. I'm sure there will be farting. Burping. Spitballs. Death.