Bumps In the Road

My main blogging PC crashed a week ago.  My visiting son-in-law installed a new wireless router and fixed my newest PC–that also had issues.  I’m, once again, soaring into the blogosphere.

Perhaps some of you have submitted DNA samples to one of those genealogy websites?  Formerly a skeptic, my spouse participated.

During the fifties, in rural Mid-America, extra-marital affairs were kept hush-hush.  Her paternal grandfather, was not blood-related?  She’d heard  whispers during family gatherings as a child.

Not long after DNA results were tallied, the e-mails began.  An unknown person with a considerable amount of shared DNA.  A long-lost cousin?  Surely, it couldn’t be true.

In discussions, a young lady in her forties, from my wife’s hometown, revealed details about her family.  There were too many coincidences.  Family pictures shared, and the secret was out.

There were no living relatives, to confirm or deny.  Family secrets–should they be kept secret?  I inclined to think they should be, unless it’s for health reasons.

If only computer problems and genetics were the worst things that happened this week.  On Tuesday, my wife slipped and fell while debarking from a dolphin cruise excursion boat.  She fractured her pelvis in two places.  As bad as it was, it could have been worse.

Nothing was displaced, and she can ambulate cautiously with a walker.  A painful injury to be sure.  Our visiting daughter is a nurse.  She helped to clarify questions regarding prognosis and treatment.  For the near future, I’m stepping up my game around the house.

 

 

 

THE RELUCTANT TWENTY MINUTE GOURMET

short order cooks 2

It’s been a long recovery since my wife’s accident on December 20th.  There was a new sense of purpose–a different attitude. Less helplessness, more take charge.  Breakfast preparations were underway.  At times, it seemed, just a bit too frenetic.

“Be more careful cracking those eggs.  Half the egg whites landed on the countertop.”

“Add a little milk, some salt, and pepper.”

“Use a fork–not a spoon.  It works better,”  “OK,” I answered–put down my spoon, and picked up a fork.

“You’re making scrambled eggs–not meringue.”  “Yes, Dear,” I replied.

“Where’s the ham we just bought?  I know one piece, is in the freezer, in the garage.  Where’s the other piece?”  “Right here,” I answered.

“Now, divide it one-third, two-thirds, for me and you.  Cook it in the skillet till it browns.  No, that’s not done yet–turn it over once more.”

“Add some butter to this pan, now add the potatoes.  I just use scissors to open the package–it’s quicker.”

“Don’t forget the biscuits.  Use some non-stick cooking spray.  Biscuits take the longest.  This entire meal should take no longer than twenty minutes to prepare.”

I caught my breath, rinsed, and put the dirty dishes in the sink.  Any thoughts of ever being a short-order cook, quickly drained away–not, that there ever were any.  I already knew, more that I ever wanted to know, about cooking.  And you know what?  Breakfast was ready in exactly twenty minutes.