Cooking is a dangerous business.
Last night I made chicken noodle soup from a can and grilled cheese sandwiches, because I’m a culinary queen.
The bread was homemade.
You need to know that, because somehow I felt like it balanced the soup from a can and the cheese slices wrapped in plastic.
Girls, we can not do it all, but we can do some things well. So, I made bread. I can do that.
Not so much, although it’s not from lack of trying. I’ve just reconciled myself to the fact that a person named Campbell does chicken noodle soup a hundred times better than I do.
My husband was working, so the kids and I sat down to our bowls of steaming soup and our thick grilled cheese sandwiches.
That’s when I remembered the extra half-slice of cheese on the kitchen counter.
I popped up to get it for my son, because he’s part mouse, and also because I can’t let a perfectly good half-slice (we call them slaps in my house, not slices) of processed milk by-product go to waste.
When those cheese slaps are not fresh out of the fridge, they get a little gooey and rubbery, almost like one of those slimy rubber hands the kids get in a little plastic egg.
Do you know what I’m talking about?
You fling the hand and it stretches twelve feet.
The kids make it goal to touch every object in the house with that hand, leaving a light coat of slime behind. The fun ends when it gets stuck on the ceiling where you forget about it for the next six months. Then summer comes, the humidity gives it just a touch of moisture, and it falls when you have a room full of company.
You quickly jump up and snatch the stretchy hand before anyone can identify the slimy object falling from your ceiling. You glance up, just to make sure.
I mean, ceilings are the forgotten place, even when cleaning for company.
That’s what that half-slap of cheese was like, a gooey hand.
I tend to talk with my hands; it’s a family trait (you should see my mother. it’s like watching sign language), so when my arm swung to the right, that slippery slap of cheese broke free from fingers and plunged into my daughter’s bowl of chicken noodle soup.
It was like an orange cannon ball and the splash of soup rose high enough to poke my daughter’s eye out.
My son practically fell to the floor in a fit of laughter.
I was concerned that I forever singed my daughter’s cornea, but it was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen, so I started laughing too. And crying.
The only one not laughing, was the little girl wearing a bear hat and holding a hand over her eye.
I am happy to say she suffered no permanent damaged, but I did have to fish a quickly melting pile of cheese out of her soup.
Chicken Noodle Cheese Soup – Campbell’s, I created it first!
I’m over at Fancy Little Things today talking about 5 Tips for New Bloggers, Tip #3 – Be Social.
Please come on over for a visit. I promise not to talk about soup.