Women Over Fifty

We are sitting in the study (computer room, guest room, storage room).  I am blogging as usual.  Himself is lost in a computer game.  Normal stuff. 

Slowly the stink of burning food sneaks into the room.  Is that still the burned potato smell?  Probably not.  Engrossed in what I’m doing, I say “Something’s burning.”  As the thought worms its way into our busy brains, we both rush for the kitchen.  

The dog’s carrots have burned dry.  My husband whisks the pan off the stove and submerges the burned carrots in water.  

I look into the pan and the carrots - the little, already peeled ones - are standing straight up in their bed of char, looking for all the world like orange muscles or some sort of orange eels with their heads up in the water.  I run for the camera, but my husband is already at work hacking them from the bottom of the pan.  In short order they are headed down the garbage disposal and the pan is soaking.

I didn’t touch them!  Ever!  My husband was cooking the carrots for the dog.

Our dog’s been on a diet since he weighed over 100 pounds at the vets.  The vet suggested we mix veggies with his food to add bulk while not adding a lot of calories.  The dog wouldn’t touch them until we started cooking them with unsalted beef bouillon.  Now the dog thinks they’re just fine.  Fine, except that my husband has taken on the job of cooking for the dog. 

My husband is the one who burned the carrots.

I’d say let’s call it even and forget it, but this morning I burnt my croissant in the toaster.

Marilynne