The Willies

I have nothing of real importance to talk about today. Therefore, I’m just going to talk for a while and when I feel done I’m going to stop. You can read and gain absolutely nothing or you can stop now and resume something more important. The choice is yours, take it or leave it.

Raw chicken freaks me out. IF I was ever being interviewed, and IF they asked me to name the Top 5 Things I would most hate to be slapped across the face with; raw, cold, boneless, skinless chicken breast would make the cut.

During my lunch break today I ran home to load the Crock Pot. I only live about a mile and a half from my work. I can say “ONLY” because I have a car and I can drive. Therefore, I often run home to eat, start a load of laundry, or take care of this or that quite often. Don’t be confused, I drive even though I said “run”. I wouldn’t say “OFTEN” either if I was talking about running. I’ve come to the conclusion however, that I go home for lunch, because I have a sick desire for the pressure of trying not to run late for work 2 times a day.

I was making Mexican Chicken A’ La Crock Pot. Which means tossing some raw chick in the pot, sprinkling it with Kroger brand taco seasoning, a cup of water, and a chicken Bouillon cube… whatever those are. I then throw in a can of black beans and a can of roasted corn, stir, cover, and leave unattended just like my laundry that is also unsafe while I am not at home.

Later that evening…

“Hey kids, we’re having chicken burritos!!!”, said with excess enthusiasm. “I hate burritos”. “Burritos stink”, they shout. Trying not to sound too prepared for their reaction, “just kidding!” “we are actually having Fiesta soup”!!! “A party in a bowl”!!!  I turn around and block the crock pot with my body from their vision. 3 more Bouillons + 3 cups of water as instructed=BAM!!! Dinner with a rejection option.

Being a mother, I am forced to touch many gross things with my bare hands. I remember watching my mother shove dinner scraps into the disposal without batting an eye. I swore, then and there, I’d never do such a thing. Sometimes however I even do it with the disposal still running. It gives me thrills that I miss from my younger days.

Touching raw chicken with my bare hands however leads to excessive washing and cleaning under my nails with each decontamination session for the next hour or so. In addition, I am a health care worker so “hands” includes halfway up my forearms. One might think I am a surgeon by the way I wash, but I’m not. I’m a physical therapist with 1. an irrational relationship with meat juice and       2. dry forearms.

I usually put on rubber gloves when I’m touching raw meat. My dad gives me a new box here and there, especially if I keep cooking raw meat for him. I think its a fair trade. I was unaware of how many single-handed, high-dexterity requiring dirty jobs I had until I noticed that I always ran out of right-handed gloves first. I used to get annoyed by all my residual lefty’s until I realized that a left-handed glove inside out is a right! (Go ahead, take a minute. Mentally flip it. It’s good brain work.)

Today however, I planned on minimally touching those bad boys and simply flipping them quickly into the crock pot, thus only contaminating my thumb and index.  I decided before hand that I was capable of rationally cleaning those two digits and wanted to save a glove. I think I did fairly well however as I’m typing this, my forearms feel tight and dehydrated. Raw chicken can just be so fowl.

I think I am done for now.

I have a Part 2 to this story titled ‘A Turkey’s Life’. My voice named “Common Sense”, that you met in my story Walkin’ On Sunshine keeps telling me I should keep pushing SAVE vs PUBLISH. I really try to listen to her! …but sometimes I don’t hehehehe….

3 thoughts on “The Willies

  1. Pingback: Par | Who Dried My Jeans?!

  2. Judy

    I buy non-sterile gloves at the pharmacy to wear when I touch chicken, meat or fish. I wash the cutting board in the dishwasher. One hundred to a box and no right or left glove.

    Like

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