Azure Jane Lunatic (Azz) đș (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
azurelunatic) wrote2023-12-11 07:53 pm
azurelunatic) wrote2023-12-11 07:53 pm
Entry tags:
The tiny tragedy of the cheese
It has been a grilled cheese kind of weekend.
Yesterday we were almost out of bread, so I carefully limited the number of slices I had so I'd have a few left for lunch, and requested that Belovedest get more sourdough bread, and more small tomatoes, on the way home.
I thought of asking about cheese, but I was almost sure that there was another bag of shredded cheddar in the bottom drawer, so I refrained. No need to overstock cheese just because I was feeling insecure.
Now, on ritalin I have become actually sensitive to caffeine, so I have a box of caffeine-free coke in the soda stash, and after the appointed hour I tend to drink that if I'm craving the coke. I am somewhat slow at drinking soda sometimes, and prefer the miniature bottles instead of cans, because you can re-close them, but at least at this grocery you only find the caffeine-free in the cans.
So I'd opened a can while I was waiting (for what? the occasion has been lost, but it's not outside of the question that it was to get my energy back, as that has plummeted along with my assorted blood counts -- I don't have great numbers in either white or red cells) and then after I had prepared my grilled cheese, I was going to go over to the couch with my sandwiches and coke and water and play gems. Dammit.
So I arranged the first three slices of the new loaf on the tray, scattered the last crumbs of the old bag of cheese on the middle one, and withdrew the shining new bag of cheese from the bottom of the refrigerator. They come in pairs, see. I ripped it open.
There, staring out at me, were the tiny blue eyes of one particular shred of cheese.
Cheddar cheese, mind you.
Woefully, I plucked out the offending shred and discarded it.
Woefully, I sorted through the cheese, looking for the yellowest bits.
Woefully, I scattered shreds on the other two slices of bread, pausing to retrieve another blue strand that I saw in passing.
Woefully, I submitted the cheese toast to the broiling oven.
Woefully, I plunked the new bag of cheese down after the old one in the kitchen trash.
Woefully, I turned the pan mid-toast.
By the time I pulled the pan out of the oven and saw the dark patch on the melted cheese of the smallest slice, I was more spiteful than woeful. So I spitefully took a pinch of melted cheese out and tossed it, too, in the trash, on top of the rest of the cheese.
But I, dammit, was going to go have my cheese toast and coke while I played gems.
I grabbed my plate with the sliced tomatoes and cheese toasts, grabbed my can of coke and set it on the plate, swung by my desk, and leaned over to grab the handle of my water bottle's lid.
As I grasped it, my coke toppled over and began spraying everywhere.
With both hands full, I yelped in misery.
Belovedest came and removed the coke from the situation. Then they returned bearing towels to clean up the floor and my chemo backpack, which were the main recipients of the spray.
With great spite and yes, a return of the woe, I wiped down the backpack and my much-abused glass chair mat. Eventually I stomped off to the couch to resume my dinner plans.
The tomatoes, which I licked off, were coke-flavored. The undersides of the breads were soaked in coke.
It was after 7pm, and full dark. Costco would be closing soon.
I contemplated the twice spoiled cheese toast. I contemplated my iffy appetite. I contemplated, yet again, my food safety knowledge. I contemplated my blood count, and my obligatory use of an acid reducer.
In spite, woe, and common sense, I deposited the latter two slices in the trash, and miserably ate the dry half of the middle slice.
(A little later, Belovedest went out to the nearer grocery store for a small bag of shredded cheddar, and I had my uncontaminated cheese toast.)
Yesterday we were almost out of bread, so I carefully limited the number of slices I had so I'd have a few left for lunch, and requested that Belovedest get more sourdough bread, and more small tomatoes, on the way home.
I thought of asking about cheese, but I was almost sure that there was another bag of shredded cheddar in the bottom drawer, so I refrained. No need to overstock cheese just because I was feeling insecure.
Now, on ritalin I have become actually sensitive to caffeine, so I have a box of caffeine-free coke in the soda stash, and after the appointed hour I tend to drink that if I'm craving the coke. I am somewhat slow at drinking soda sometimes, and prefer the miniature bottles instead of cans, because you can re-close them, but at least at this grocery you only find the caffeine-free in the cans.
So I'd opened a can while I was waiting (for what? the occasion has been lost, but it's not outside of the question that it was to get my energy back, as that has plummeted along with my assorted blood counts -- I don't have great numbers in either white or red cells) and then after I had prepared my grilled cheese, I was going to go over to the couch with my sandwiches and coke and water and play gems. Dammit.
So I arranged the first three slices of the new loaf on the tray, scattered the last crumbs of the old bag of cheese on the middle one, and withdrew the shining new bag of cheese from the bottom of the refrigerator. They come in pairs, see. I ripped it open.
There, staring out at me, were the tiny blue eyes of one particular shred of cheese.
Cheddar cheese, mind you.
Woefully, I plucked out the offending shred and discarded it.
Woefully, I sorted through the cheese, looking for the yellowest bits.
Woefully, I scattered shreds on the other two slices of bread, pausing to retrieve another blue strand that I saw in passing.
Woefully, I submitted the cheese toast to the broiling oven.
Woefully, I plunked the new bag of cheese down after the old one in the kitchen trash.
Woefully, I turned the pan mid-toast.
By the time I pulled the pan out of the oven and saw the dark patch on the melted cheese of the smallest slice, I was more spiteful than woeful. So I spitefully took a pinch of melted cheese out and tossed it, too, in the trash, on top of the rest of the cheese.
But I, dammit, was going to go have my cheese toast and coke while I played gems.
I grabbed my plate with the sliced tomatoes and cheese toasts, grabbed my can of coke and set it on the plate, swung by my desk, and leaned over to grab the handle of my water bottle's lid.
As I grasped it, my coke toppled over and began spraying everywhere.
With both hands full, I yelped in misery.
Belovedest came and removed the coke from the situation. Then they returned bearing towels to clean up the floor and my chemo backpack, which were the main recipients of the spray.
With great spite and yes, a return of the woe, I wiped down the backpack and my much-abused glass chair mat. Eventually I stomped off to the couch to resume my dinner plans.
The tomatoes, which I licked off, were coke-flavored. The undersides of the breads were soaked in coke.
It was after 7pm, and full dark. Costco would be closing soon.
I contemplated the twice spoiled cheese toast. I contemplated my iffy appetite. I contemplated, yet again, my food safety knowledge. I contemplated my blood count, and my obligatory use of an acid reducer.
In spite, woe, and common sense, I deposited the latter two slices in the trash, and miserably ate the dry half of the middle slice.
(A little later, Belovedest went out to the nearer grocery store for a small bag of shredded cheddar, and I had my uncontaminated cheese toast.)
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morningafternoon!no subject
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Thank you for an excuse to use my cheese icon, though!
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I had a plan involving broccoli and cheddar. I discovered that I was out of cheddar, went upstairs seeking the cheddar⊠and discovered that the cheddar had just become the antihero of an epic tragedy.