Oh, that was the best dinner. Red snapper baked in a citrus-soy sauce over smashed purple potatoes with butter-and-garlic veggies. And I remembered to take a picture *before* eating it, too.
I was not always such an accomplished chef. Okay, i'm still not. But one time, I made the worst mistake anyone can make in the kitchen. At least, the worst mistake that can be made without a butcher knife and a baggie full of ice.
It was the last day of my last semester of college, and I was cramming in as many studio classes as possible. I was a horrible roommate, and therefore I had ruined several roommate relationships, and therefore I was sleeping on a papasan couch in the trailer of some bizarre pagans. I even woke up with a baby ball python on my head once.
It was... a different sort of life.
I had endured a horrible, endlessly long night preparing to turn in my final projects. Hacked into my hand so deeply that I had to back the saw out in the metals studio. Painted for 8 hours straight. Chipped plaster until my hands were numb. Rode the bus that picked up the fresh-faced sorority sisters who were like, totally bummed that I was up until 11 working on that "Fall" bulletin board for my final and somehow managed not to choke any of 'em with their pearl necklaces as I bled onto my steel-toed shoes.
And then I had finally turned in all my finals, and I decided to celebrate by getting drunk all by myself in the trailer. I snooped around, found a glass, some kahlua, some vodka, some milk. Mixed up something that would have passed as a White Russian to a sleep-deprived college kid. But I needed ice.
I puttered around in the heavily frosted freezer, seeking an ice cube tray or a bag of ice or a handy place to chip off frost. Nothing. So I started shaking the plastic containers, assuming that something would contain ice. Aha! Found it. Dumped the ice into my drink, plunked the container back in the freezer, brought the cup to my lips.
And felt a frozen baby mouse bob gently against my nose.
Yup. I had just dumped a Tupperware container of snake food into my drink, and three pinky mice were floating around, slightly defrosting, their tiny, frozen faces mirroring my own mask of horror.
I put a $10 spot in the container, left a letter of apology, threw the drink out the back deck, packed up, and drove to my parents' house. And the next day, I left for a whirlwind tour of the Grecian isles, so it was a pretty decent summer, altogether.
But I have never wanted a White Russian, or a Black Russian, or any other sort of Russian, again.