sticky shit

you know that glaze packet that comes with the ham that everybody cooks for easter dinner?

… that is some sticky shit.

And why is it that I can never remember that it’s potatoes first and THEN ham? If I start the scalloped potatoes in the oven first, cook for 45 minutes, then cook the pre-cooked (how stupid is that, I mean really folks) ham for its first session, then BOTH the ham AND the potatoes go in for the last 30, and ta-da, hot stuff done at the same time before 7:30 pm and kids don’t nod off at the table and get ham sauce in their hair. Easy, right? Then why, dear lord, oh why is it that I have only been able to pull off this seemingly simple task of kitchen wizardry only once in 6 years of family holiday cooking? And I make this freakin’ meal roughly TWICE EVERY FLIPPIN’ YEAR!!! Next year, screw the ham, it’s turkey for Easter or jello and water, and that’s final.

nw0171

During the marathon cooking session of 4 ½ hours (which would have been 2 ½ had I not been the idiot who put the ham in before the potatoes), I made a startling discovery: The Easter Bunny has moved into our backyard along with his entire extended family. We have been invaded. Our once beautiful, albeit tiny, bit of lawn flanking our tiny, albeit… nope, just tiny, house has become a complete wreck of miniature hills and valleys littered with rabbit poo and dead grass, leaf mould and more rabbit poo. It is ankle breaking and heart wrenching to walk on the grass that used to make me so proud. Proud of all the hard work that The Husband and I had put into our little yard, all the money we have forked out to the fine people at ChemLawn to make our lawn the best looking on the block, and apparently the most rabbit friendly, for I have seen no other neighbors walking their lawns swearing above their breath and vowing revenge upon the rabbit population. But I could be wrong.

Add the rabbit infestation to all of the other little things that have started to creep up wrong with our little house over the last few months, and I’m starting to feel betrayed. I’m not sure by whom yet, but betrayed nonetheless. Granted, the house is 110 years old and the entire town was built on swampland (“Hey Bob – this looks like a great place to settle, nice and close to water!” And people wonder why non-Dakota people think Dakota people are stupid. Yeah.), but it’s kind of like all the “fixes” that were done on the house in order to sell it are now wearing off, because they were not done well. Oh, fine. They did a shit job on most everything, and there are some downright weird things that make no sense whatsoever. Shit workmanship? The windows have daylight gaps between the frames and the interior walls, they have never sealed properly on the outside, which has created a moisture issue on the inside during the winter, which has led to a mold problem on the cheap wooden frames because they were never properly water sealed. And I have a sneaking suspicion that there has always been a bit of a mold issue in this house, since there are little patches cropping up from cracks that are breaking through walls that were patched. Hoodwinked, I say. Less than full disclosure. 6 years after the fact, I feel like I got suckered into an eventual money pit, and in order to sell the damn thing we’re going to have to start throwing money at it like it’s an AIG.

On the other hand, I am grateful that I still have a roof over my head, even if there are some cracks starting to show.

oh — and p.s. condron.us (because there’s just no good way to work that into the story, you know?)