13 July 2013
685
R. Linda:
Yesterday was your last full day before you left for the smoke-filled hills of Colorado, or as Weasil says the sandstorm-filled skies of Colorado (seems the sand is taking the place of the smoke). So I had a brainstorm of an idea for your last night, yes I did, LETS COOK MEXICAN! When you heard that declaration at breakfast you stopped swinging your legs in Guido's old highchair (where you were sitting at table), the toast was halfway to your mouth, and your eyes got very large (I thought they'd pop out of your head). It was obvious you were not a fan of my idea.
"Wot? Wot be wrong?" I asked you.
"If you think YOU are cooking my specialities think again!" You shouted throwing the toast at me.
"Huh?" I said watching the toast slide down me shirt leaving a track of jelly behind. I must have looked like I had been shot.
"After last night's Polish dinner of kielbasa and pirogues and me going to bed dying of thirst all night BECAUSE you over niggled, I mean over salted the cabbage when you shouldn't have . . . and who's Polish anyway? SO . . . YOU are not Mexican!" You pointed at me with your spoon and I pointed to me jelly-stained self in question, "And YOU," more pointing with the spoon, "may think you know how to cook Mexican, but YOU are Irish and YOU don't really know what YOU are doing. If we are having a Mexican dinner then I will do the cooking and YOU will observe." You finished, asking Tonya for the shopping list, who handed it over with a "yes mam."
I sighed. Here I thought I'd treat you, but secretly I was kind of happy at the change of events. You would do all the work and I'd stand by your side acting like I never saw a Tamale in my life. I can do this, I thought to meself and get an arse kicking dinner out of it. YES!
But I didn't let on, no, no, I made it like I was disappointed until you said this, "Oh yeah, and I think we'll finish up with some Irish booze just to toast Anthony Quinn!"
The wife, the boyos, and meself, all looked up from our plates and sat in deep contemplation of THAT. It was like WHAT? More importantly WHY? I started to open me cakehole to ask you exactly those questions, but the wife kicked me under the table and muttered, "No Gabe, just let it go."
"Who is Anti Kin?" Guido asked.
"Don't tell him, let him niggle it for himself," you said looking up from the shopping list.
But I couldn't I had to know. I started to ask when Tonya made a warning sound and cut me off. But you knew I was struggling with this and you didn't care, you smiled at me while you slathered another piece of toast with strawberry jam.
I ran out to the store while you were playing Game of Farts with O'Hare and got the ingredients. I started to arrange everything on the kitchen counter but you caught me.
"Step away from the counter Gabe," your voice came from behind me with a threatening tone attached to it. I put me hands up as if I were in the Master Chef's kitchen and backed away as you slid the stepladder to the counter, got to the top step and peered inside the bags. "Okay, you did well." You said with a wee smile of disbelief that an Irishman could shop Mexican.
"I feel like I'm in the kitchen with Joe Bastianich," I muttered.
I nodded but said not another word, knowing better than to engage when you are in cooking mode. The entire afternoon was filled with the wafting and delicious smells of old Mexico. I was floating on those aromas and drooling in anticipation. But you cut the daydreams short by telling me to set up the bar we had a special guest coming. That was another WHAT in me mind and a WHO. And I asked and was told it was a surprise and you know I HATE, HATE, HATE surprises!
I realised I don't have a bar and informed your diminutive self of that fact.
"Then make one."
All afternoon I battled my senses that could smell good stuff coming to Gabe's tum and me brain was rattling itself nuts as to who you invited. I wracked that old brain organ good trying to figure out who you knew that lived nearby, but I couldn't come up with a name. When I got knackered of that I was back on Anthony Quinn. In between all this, I was trying to make some kind of makeshift bar. Only later did I find out the truth, you wanted me out of the kitchen "YOUR KITCHEN" so I wouldn't be tasting the goods. Yeah, do I know you or what?
Anyway, dinner came and it was out of this world delicious. But during the main course, I heard something outside, it sounded like gypsies had shown up in a pot rattling waggon. I got to get up but you told me to "sit it down and eat or the cat will get it. I'll go." And you slid out of the highchair and went to the door. I heard (I thought) an Irish accent, but who it belonged to I had no clue. I was so tempted, but Tonya warned me it "might be the surprise guest so sit there and don't move."
"And it MIGHT be Anthony Quinn coming back from the dead as a zombie. SHE'D do that, yes, she'd find a way." I whispered back as the two boyos stopped in mid-chew to look incredulous.
But I did as told. You came back with a smug look on your face after closing the door between the kitchen and living room. Nothing was said, but I could hear glasses and metal clinking in the other room and it was getting to me.
The flan was fabulous though mine I think is the best, I know I didn't say that then, but you are long gone and can't beat me about the shins with a wooden spoon, so I can say it NOW.
So we got the kitchen pretty cleaned up and the boyos were put to bed (did I mention it was a very late dinner?) and the three of us stepped out into my living room to find THIS:
R. Linda:
Yesterday was your last full day before you left for the smoke-filled hills of Colorado, or as Weasil says the sandstorm-filled skies of Colorado (seems the sand is taking the place of the smoke). So I had a brainstorm of an idea for your last night, yes I did, LETS COOK MEXICAN! When you heard that declaration at breakfast you stopped swinging your legs in Guido's old highchair (where you were sitting at table), the toast was halfway to your mouth, and your eyes got very large (I thought they'd pop out of your head). It was obvious you were not a fan of my idea.
"Wot? Wot be wrong?" I asked you.
"If you think YOU are cooking my specialities think again!" You shouted throwing the toast at me.
"Huh?" I said watching the toast slide down me shirt leaving a track of jelly behind. I must have looked like I had been shot.
"After last night's Polish dinner of kielbasa and pirogues and me going to bed dying of thirst all night BECAUSE you over niggled, I mean over salted the cabbage when you shouldn't have . . . and who's Polish anyway? SO . . . YOU are not Mexican!" You pointed at me with your spoon and I pointed to me jelly-stained self in question, "And YOU," more pointing with the spoon, "may think you know how to cook Mexican, but YOU are Irish and YOU don't really know what YOU are doing. If we are having a Mexican dinner then I will do the cooking and YOU will observe." You finished, asking Tonya for the shopping list, who handed it over with a "yes mam."
I sighed. Here I thought I'd treat you, but secretly I was kind of happy at the change of events. You would do all the work and I'd stand by your side acting like I never saw a Tamale in my life. I can do this, I thought to meself and get an arse kicking dinner out of it. YES!
But I didn't let on, no, no, I made it like I was disappointed until you said this, "Oh yeah, and I think we'll finish up with some Irish booze just to toast Anthony Quinn!"
The wife, the boyos, and meself, all looked up from our plates and sat in deep contemplation of THAT. It was like WHAT? More importantly WHY? I started to open me cakehole to ask you exactly those questions, but the wife kicked me under the table and muttered, "No Gabe, just let it go."
"Who is Anti Kin?" Guido asked.
"Don't tell him, let him niggle it for himself," you said looking up from the shopping list.
But I couldn't I had to know. I started to ask when Tonya made a warning sound and cut me off. But you knew I was struggling with this and you didn't care, you smiled at me while you slathered another piece of toast with strawberry jam.
I ran out to the store while you were playing Game of Farts with O'Hare and got the ingredients. I started to arrange everything on the kitchen counter but you caught me.
"Step away from the counter Gabe," your voice came from behind me with a threatening tone attached to it. I put me hands up as if I were in the Master Chef's kitchen and backed away as you slid the stepladder to the counter, got to the top step and peered inside the bags. "Okay, you did well." You said with a wee smile of disbelief that an Irishman could shop Mexican.
"I feel like I'm in the kitchen with Joe Bastianich," I muttered.
I nodded but said not another word, knowing better than to engage when you are in cooking mode. The entire afternoon was filled with the wafting and delicious smells of old Mexico. I was floating on those aromas and drooling in anticipation. But you cut the daydreams short by telling me to set up the bar we had a special guest coming. That was another WHAT in me mind and a WHO. And I asked and was told it was a surprise and you know I HATE, HATE, HATE surprises!
I realised I don't have a bar and informed your diminutive self of that fact.
"Then make one."
All afternoon I battled my senses that could smell good stuff coming to Gabe's tum and me brain was rattling itself nuts as to who you invited. I wracked that old brain organ good trying to figure out who you knew that lived nearby, but I couldn't come up with a name. When I got knackered of that I was back on Anthony Quinn. In between all this, I was trying to make some kind of makeshift bar. Only later did I find out the truth, you wanted me out of the kitchen "YOUR KITCHEN" so I wouldn't be tasting the goods. Yeah, do I know you or what?
Anyway, dinner came and it was out of this world delicious. But during the main course, I heard something outside, it sounded like gypsies had shown up in a pot rattling waggon. I got to get up but you told me to "sit it down and eat or the cat will get it. I'll go." And you slid out of the highchair and went to the door. I heard (I thought) an Irish accent, but who it belonged to I had no clue. I was so tempted, but Tonya warned me it "might be the surprise guest so sit there and don't move."
"And it MIGHT be Anthony Quinn coming back from the dead as a zombie. SHE'D do that, yes, she'd find a way." I whispered back as the two boyos stopped in mid-chew to look incredulous.
But I did as told. You came back with a smug look on your face after closing the door between the kitchen and living room. Nothing was said, but I could hear glasses and metal clinking in the other room and it was getting to me.
The flan was fabulous though mine I think is the best, I know I didn't say that then, but you are long gone and can't beat me about the shins with a wooden spoon, so I can say it NOW.
So we got the kitchen pretty cleaned up and the boyos were put to bed (did I mention it was a very late dinner?) and the three of us stepped out into my living room to find THIS:
 |
| Leprechaun Jimmy ready to serve, notice the wonderful work on a makeshift bar |
I was gobsmacked to the back gills I was! He was even shorter than YOURSELF! I was so damn amazed I wanted to get a tape measure, but the wife told me to behave and take a jar of Guinness and enjoy the circus. And I did, and she did, and you did. Jimmy and the wife were hitting it off, he calling her an Amazon and she called him a wee leprechaun, it was all in fun, but I was thinking too much about Big Brother for both of them.
I took you aside and asked when had you been to Ireland to capture a genuine leprechaun, when, when, when?
"Wasn't me, it was your special guest." You winked taking a sip of your mojito, which I hadn't seen before. Where you got it from I don't know -- all I could see were jars of Guinness. But I didn't get to ask because you said, "I am afraid Gabe, the special guest met with an accident and well . . . he's not very special anymore. Oh, and there is a bit of a mess . . ."
I stood there stunned. Special guest? Mojito out of nowhere? Accident? A bit of a mess? Oi! What was going on I wanted to know. You beckoned me to follow you into the hall between the living room and the back den. You opened the den door, it was dark in there. I looked in and didn't see anything so I slid my hand down the wall for the light switch and as soon as light filled the space the splotch of red caught my eye and I looked down and there on the floor . . . oh it was bloody and it was awful . . . was the special guest. DEAD, DEAD I TELL YA ON ME DEN FLOOR!
"Ewww the mess," I said turning to you, "I need to go get a bucket and some wipes, this is going to take a bit, do NOT tell Tonya, if she sees all that blood on her clean stone floor she'll go nutters. Be right back." I said.
"Ok." You said looking at the special guest sprawled out on the floor. "I'd of thought you'd do CPR or something, but I guess it's too late." And you sighed. That was all I heard. I went out the hall window because going out to the kitchen through the living room would get Tonya's attention. So I came in the backdoor and got the cleaning stuff from the kitchen and then out the backdoor to the hall window and in I came down the hallway. I think I looked ready to clean.
You looked at me and shook your head like you just didn't know about me.
I took you aside and asked when had you been to Ireland to capture a genuine leprechaun, when, when, when?
"Wasn't me, it was your special guest." You winked taking a sip of your mojito, which I hadn't seen before. Where you got it from I don't know -- all I could see were jars of Guinness. But I didn't get to ask because you said, "I am afraid Gabe, the special guest met with an accident and well . . . he's not very special anymore. Oh, and there is a bit of a mess . . ."
I stood there stunned. Special guest? Mojito out of nowhere? Accident? A bit of a mess? Oi! What was going on I wanted to know. You beckoned me to follow you into the hall between the living room and the back den. You opened the den door, it was dark in there. I looked in and didn't see anything so I slid my hand down the wall for the light switch and as soon as light filled the space the splotch of red caught my eye and I looked down and there on the floor . . . oh it was bloody and it was awful . . . was the special guest. DEAD, DEAD I TELL YA ON ME DEN FLOOR!
"Ewww the mess," I said turning to you, "I need to go get a bucket and some wipes, this is going to take a bit, do NOT tell Tonya, if she sees all that blood on her clean stone floor she'll go nutters. Be right back." I said.
"Ok." You said looking at the special guest sprawled out on the floor. "I'd of thought you'd do CPR or something, but I guess it's too late." And you sighed. That was all I heard. I went out the hall window because going out to the kitchen through the living room would get Tonya's attention. So I came in the backdoor and got the cleaning stuff from the kitchen and then out the backdoor to the hall window and in I came down the hallway. I think I looked ready to clean.
 |
| You can't say I was looking forward to clean-up but I was ready |
"Blood does come up off of stone tile doesn't it?" I asked you but you shrugged and gave me an 'I dunno' kind of look. Then you stepped aside as I went into the den to this:
"You have to help me move him. I don't know what to do about him or where to put him. I guess I'll be digging a hole in the ground under the full moon. There is a full moon isn't there?" I asked.
 |
| What I thought was a dead Weasil on the floor. |
"No, I don't think there is." You said sipping the mojito. "You'll just have to bungle around in pitch darkness. You'll just have to 'niggle' about it." And you snickered.
There was that word 'niggle' you were still having your fun over using it at every opportunity.
I looked up at you then.
"You are enjoying this." I said but you puffed out your cheeks like 'I dunno am I?' I tell ya!
As I went to move the Weasil's cold dead body, I asked you how it happened.
"Uh, I think he slipped." You said brightly.
"On what?" I said looking around, the footstool wasn't even in the room. "OR, he was pushed?"
"Uhhh . . . maybe he drank himself to death toasting Anthony Quinn." You answered ignoring my question with a guilty look on your face.
"Wait a minute you need to explain this Anthony Quinn stuff."
"He was Irish and Mexican so I thought . . . " and you pointed to me then yourself.
"THAT'S IT? O M G that is so warped." I said tut-tutting as I grabbed the Weasil by both wrists to move him, but as I half lifted him, his head lolling backwards towards the floor, I thought if I dragged him I'd have a bloody mess following where I dragged him too, and it would take me even longer to clean the blood off the old stone tiles. I was in a quandary I was.
"You know we could be Anthony Quinn's children, niggle that Gabe, one of each," you sneered taking another sip of the mojito.
I just looked at you for a second I had more concerning things on me mind than being a child of Anthony Quinn and YOU being my sister.
"I'm not sure what to do here," I said to you, "if I drag him he'll leave more of a mess and really?"
"Ya could jus let me lie here," Weasil said looking up at me through half-opened eyes still feigning dead. "Yeah know ya sorter lookie like Quinn from dissy here angle." I dropped him and his head made a clunking sound on the hard, cold, stone tile.
"You stupid arse!" I said.
I took my rubber gloves and mask off and threw them at his laughing face as he broke into gales of mirth on the floor.
"Rolonda, this is Weasil, Weas, this is Rolonda AKA the Muse, but I be sure you two have already met," I said. "Both Colorado residents, you have a lot in common, talk about it, I've got a jar of Guinness waiting for me if a certain leprechaun hasn't run off with me wife." With that, I turned and left you.
It was later, after a mad panic, I had left blood on the stone floor, that I found out it wasn't blood it was a velvet plush bit of rug shaped like a blood pool. Will the Weasil EVER grow up? I ask ya! And YOU going along with it, I dunno about you either.
Now that all is back the way it was, and your visit is becoming a memory (and Weasil I wish WAS a distant, very distant memory), life is a wee bit empty. There are a few things though, I rather think I be keeping me homemade bar and I did enjoy the rest of the leftovers, but I meant to ask you, where'd the leprechaun go? He disappeared but he left his bow tie and Weasil's blood rug is missing. I have a strange feeling because wee people take things, leaving something behind -- I noticed he had quite the crush on your wee self AND a penchant for Halloween. Blood rug, Halloween, wee persons? I'd check your carry-on if I was you that you don't have some extra weight gone home with you. Niggle that.
Gabe
Copyright © 2013 All rights reserved
There was that word 'niggle' you were still having your fun over using it at every opportunity.
I looked up at you then.
"You are enjoying this." I said but you puffed out your cheeks like 'I dunno am I?' I tell ya!
As I went to move the Weasil's cold dead body, I asked you how it happened.
"Uh, I think he slipped." You said brightly.
"On what?" I said looking around, the footstool wasn't even in the room. "OR, he was pushed?"
"Uhhh . . . maybe he drank himself to death toasting Anthony Quinn." You answered ignoring my question with a guilty look on your face.
"Wait a minute you need to explain this Anthony Quinn stuff."
"He was Irish and Mexican so I thought . . . " and you pointed to me then yourself.
"THAT'S IT? O M G that is so warped." I said tut-tutting as I grabbed the Weasil by both wrists to move him, but as I half lifted him, his head lolling backwards towards the floor, I thought if I dragged him I'd have a bloody mess following where I dragged him too, and it would take me even longer to clean the blood off the old stone tiles. I was in a quandary I was.
"You know we could be Anthony Quinn's children, niggle that Gabe, one of each," you sneered taking another sip of the mojito.
I just looked at you for a second I had more concerning things on me mind than being a child of Anthony Quinn and YOU being my sister.
"I'm not sure what to do here," I said to you, "if I drag him he'll leave more of a mess and really?"
"Ya could jus let me lie here," Weasil said looking up at me through half-opened eyes still feigning dead. "Yeah know ya sorter lookie like Quinn from dissy here angle." I dropped him and his head made a clunking sound on the hard, cold, stone tile.
"You stupid arse!" I said.
I took my rubber gloves and mask off and threw them at his laughing face as he broke into gales of mirth on the floor.
"Rolonda, this is Weasil, Weas, this is Rolonda AKA the Muse, but I be sure you two have already met," I said. "Both Colorado residents, you have a lot in common, talk about it, I've got a jar of Guinness waiting for me if a certain leprechaun hasn't run off with me wife." With that, I turned and left you.
It was later, after a mad panic, I had left blood on the stone floor, that I found out it wasn't blood it was a velvet plush bit of rug shaped like a blood pool. Will the Weasil EVER grow up? I ask ya! And YOU going along with it, I dunno about you either.
Now that all is back the way it was, and your visit is becoming a memory (and Weasil I wish WAS a distant, very distant memory), life is a wee bit empty. There are a few things though, I rather think I be keeping me homemade bar and I did enjoy the rest of the leftovers, but I meant to ask you, where'd the leprechaun go? He disappeared but he left his bow tie and Weasil's blood rug is missing. I have a strange feeling because wee people take things, leaving something behind -- I noticed he had quite the crush on your wee self AND a penchant for Halloween. Blood rug, Halloween, wee persons? I'd check your carry-on if I was you that you don't have some extra weight gone home with you. Niggle that.
Gabe
Copyright © 2013 All rights reserved
