Lo-Carb Gunshot

We experienced a little domestic issue at our house yesterday, so I thought I would pass it along. I am sure a few of you can relate.

Marie is kind to support my musical prowess, and when I get a batch of songs done, she will lie on the couch in my studio, put the headphones on, rock out, make her comments. I am lucky to have her advice and approval. She is the quintessential rhythm queen, and that girl can dance!

My buddy and guitarist Tim Ellis was over a few days ago, and we cranked out seven new songs. I usually do a rough mix of all of them first, after Tim leaves, to listen to, and play for Marie. It is so much fun for Marie and I to listen together to what "The Axe-God" has played, over my work. The parts he comes up with are always brilliant. Tim Ellis is a genius.

So yesterday, after Marie had unwound from her typically busy work week, we came together to listen to the songs.

Allow me a bit of a digression. Marie and I recently became the proud owners of five new small birds, which makes a total of six. We love having their song in our house, and one of our pet Bichons, Poppi, has a definite relationship with them. She will sit for hours on the chair by the cages, staring intently. It's way beyond cute.

Bird keeping is not a particularly cheap hobby, but what hobby is?We have all the stuff. Two large cages, special foods bought over the internet, etc. Birds and their behavior, their song and flight, is so interesting to Marie and I, and Blaine too.We are in the process of breeding the canaries.

One food that the canaries favor, especially before breeding, is hard-boiled egg. They love it, and it is good for them, readying their little bird bodies for the feat at hand. When I got home yesterday from errands, I noticed a single chicken egg, which my sweet and canary conscious spouse had put in a small pot on the stove, boiling away. After I had settled in, brought in the groceries, whatever, Marie and I adjourned to the studio.

We listened to a couple of songs, Marie made her comments, and I was pleased that she liked what she heard. During the playing of the intro of the fourth song, a new rock version of my song "In A Toaster Moon", I heard a gunshot, coming from somewhere, in the hood, but it sounded closer, like in our house. For a second, I just thought it must have been Blaine dropping his wheelchair transfer board on the floor, which occasionally happens. But then, a sec later, I rip off my headphones and speak loudly to Marie, "Did you have something on the stove?" Her next words were......"OH SHIT."

We both ran downstairs like the wind. When we got to the kitchen, Blaine already had his wheelchair perched in the doorway, with a, shall we say, quote "shit-eatin' grin" end quote, on his face, and a bit of a giggle mixed in with his...."whut the"?

The egg, of course, so lovingly placed in the pan to cook for the canary parents-to-be, has overheated, and has exploded. There is nothing in the saucepan, save for a bit of black discoloration, carbon residue, at the bottom. Now, we are not talking an explosion, like, oh, that time your oatmeal boiled over in the microwave. We are talkin' Mount St. Helens.

There are egg chunks everywhere. How one little egg can spread out over such a large area, I cannot comprehend. It's on the ceiling. It's in the grooves of the moldings and woodwork. There are little yellow flecks on every pot and pan and wall in the kitchen. It's stuck to the wrought iron spice holder, even behind it, which I thought was firmly attached and flat against the wall, but for the egg chunks forced behind it. There are minute shell pieces in the bottom of the pottery containers we use as utensil holders. Particles completely surround each and every olive oil and balsamic vinegar "as art" container.

Marie is devastated. I try to act calm. I need to bail my poor wife outa this one.

Blaine, meanwhile, starts laughing a bit more zealously than the one, say, who will be cleaning this fucking mess up, that bein' me. I give him the look. He retreats to his room.

One thing I learned, having a bakery, is that when someone drops that full gallon jar of maraschino cherries, or a 30 lb. bucket of fresh cracked eggs, you don't make them clean it up. They feel bad enough already. So I have been at it for the last twenty-four hours or so, off and on, and now, five dishwasher loads later, three rolls of paper towels, a half a box of SOS, and much elbow grease, I am just about there. The football games are gonna start soon, and I feel great!

But I gotta be careful how I reveal these little mistakes my wife makes, like taking a perfectly good egg and utilizing it to create a nuclear blast. Cuz if I'm not, I know that if she ever gets her own BLOG, I'm toast.

P.S. I have just finished reading this tract to Marie, who once again thanked me greatly for cleaning that hairy mess up. Then she said, "Well, I have to admit, when I first saw it, I thought maybe we should move".

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