Laura Ingalls

After a two and a half month relapse, I have returned. I figure I might not be in Poland, but I'm still taking care of kids. And I want to write about some of the funny things that have happened involving them because I need to concentrate on the good stuff lately.





For purposes of summary, the not so good stuff (not good at all), my close aunt Laurette- the mom I never had - died, and I came back here to help take care of my two little cousins who are only twelve and nine. I've been living with them since the beginning of June and watch them while my uncle is working. During this time, I've transformed from this college slacker (life slacker) into this modern-day housewife who happens to know nothing about housewifery. Among some of the lighter differences in my life are:

• an acquired fascination with Lifetime movies (fact: watching a preview for one, I actually said, "Oh my God!" aloud at the twists of plot and then looked around to see who heard)


• a detailed knowledge of every Disney character created since 2004 (I hum Miley Cyrus songs around the house)


• an invisible aura of pseudo-motherhood enveloping me (Seven random kids under the age of 12 gravitated towards me at a swimming pool and one of them called me, 'Mom')


• and today's topic of conversation following this list: Moderate cooking skills.

That's right. Half the brain of a kitchen project that once lit an omelet on fire, I have been forced to undertake the unthinkable task of cooking. It's been a slow process, but I have managed to move past the peanut butter sandwich stage and onto such grandeurs as tacos and chicken. Now, I'm not saying I am a good cook by any means, but the kids eat my food which I feel is an accomplishment. I almost shed a tear earlier when Cameron told me I cooked bacon to the exact crispiness he liked (Women Studies 101 echoed something about housewives' finding fulfillment in brainless tasks of an impersonal nature. But I created that bacon my friends, and it was like art. It meant something, something real).

So I've found myself enjoying cooking a little, and I like to make something the kids ask for.

And then Cameron wanted wings.

Which led my uncle to buy this five pound bag of raw whole chicken wings, and led me to almost vomit at the thought of touching raw and bloody chicken. After doing a little squeamish and immature dance of I'd-rather-do-anything-but-touch-this-chicken, I sucked it up and opened the bag. Thus I learned when they say "whole chicken wing", they mean it. It was disgusting, this huge featherless wing from a chicken with loose skin all hanging off it. Gross.

I turned my back to the kids (they're so young! So innocent! They don't have to touch raw chicken!) and after washing the chicken, picked up a big knife to, I quote from the bottle of wing sauce, "Remove the wing tips at the joint." And I encountered the problem of determing which part of the wing was the tip. Ha! I'm stupid, I know. But the whole raw, featherless thing threw me off. After careful consideration and a humbling Googling experience with graphic depictions of violence, I determined the part that was the tip was the part that I never found in the box of wings from Dominoes, the weird little, uh, tip thing. And Google also said to cut off the extra skin around the joints.

Keep in mind that while I eat like crazy, love horror movies, and love my cousins, the thought of touching not only a dead animal, but a featherless naked-looking chicken wing terrifies me. And snapping part of this animal off the other parts of him, then dissecting him at the joints revolted me. But, I'm a big adult now, so I took the butcher knife and kinda as least Jack Nicholson as possible hacked away at the poor chicken wings and snipped-snipped that skin the chickens never even got the chance to tone.

I was left with suitable split chicken wings and the feeling I was now less of a human being. I quietly cleaned the cutting board and counter, even scrubbed the stove in case half a molecule of raw chicken happened to quantum leap ten feet across the kitchen. Then I put the chicken in the refrigerator and went to be alone for a while. I didn't want the kids to see me like this...

Just kidding about the last part. But I swear I saw it in the kids' eyes, they don't want to grow up just yet and be responsible for sawing apart poor chickens.

And that's what I'm doing these days. London doesn't sound half-bad, eh?