DH finely chopped the garlic and serrano chilies, making a "rough paste." He added it to the oil on the hot saute pan, and POOF! A sizzle and some smoke... and DH coughing up a lung. We should have known to stop right there, but we pressed on. He added the chicken, soy sauce, fish sauce, red-chili paste, and sugar. Soon all of us were hacking away without relief. Except the dog, because I guess dogs don't cough? Anyway, Bean stopped eating and choked on the air, he was crying intermittently as we tried to dissipate the smell by turning on the fan and opening the sliding glass door.
"Take that *cough* outside *cough* IMMEDIATELY!" I yelled at DH.
*cough* "Almost done!" *cough* was his reply.
Before I could grab the saute pan and chuck the contents into the yard (and then presumably hit DH over the head with the pan for not stopping sooner), he finally finished. He dumped it on a plate and put it on the patio table outside while I comforted the Bean.
Eventually we all calmed down and resumed normal breathing. I was going to crumple up the recipe and throw it away, but DH wants to keep it. He scrawled at the top in red Sharpie: WARNING! Almost killed family. I guess you never know when it will come in handy, like as a practical joke in one of those recipe-exchange chain emails. But you know the most puzzling thing about the whole experience? The result was actually really yummy.
While Evey pooch did escape being choked by the burning hot fingers of the Dish of Death, she did have her own scare. Last June when we first moved into the house (a year ago already, holy CRAP), one of our neighbors warned us about the mad amount of fireworks that people set off in our neighborhood on Independence Day. "It's like Lebanon around here," he said with a hint of reverence. (I thought he meant that our neighborhood was bordered by the Mediterranean Sea, but DH told me there are/were bombs going off there, which makes much more sense.) Last July 4th we were out of town, so we didn't get to witness this spectacularness.
This past Friday, DH was outside in the yard when our next door neighbor pulled into his driveway. He began unloading fireworks from his SUV, telling DH how he had gone to a nearby reservation to get the reeeeeally good (read: illegal) stuff. He mentioned that they'd gotten some doggy downers for their pooch to help with her anxiety, and DH agreed that was a good idea for ours as well.
When we were out running errands later that day, we swung by our vet to get our own. (No, I won't sell them to you, don't ask.) As night approached, we knew there would be fireworks going off, even though it was only July 3rd. The bottle instructed us to give her 1/2 to 1 pill, one hour before the anticipated event. Around 8 pm, we hid one in a peanut butter treat and considered it good.
It took awhile, but boy did that pill kick in! She was so out of it, she could hardly move. In the middle of the night, I heard her whining on the edge of our bed. I was at least with it enough to help her off the bed -- thank goodness, because otherwise I would have ended up with a pile of dog crap on my comforter instead of just in the hall. In the morning, I was terrified when I could hardly wake her. Fortunately, though, all's well that ends well. She eventually snapped out of it (more than 12 hours later) and was back to annoying the hell out of me. Whew! Needless to say, we only gave her half a pill on July 4th, and that was only after she proved she really needed it, by having a constant panic attack as she ran from room to room to escape the noise.
Yes, the neighbor was indeed right, the fireworks being set off in our neighborhood were HARD CORE and unrelenting for hours. The house shook frequently, the rockets let off ear-splitting screams. I would have enjoyed it, if I had not been so concerned about Bean waking up terrified, alone in his room amidst the attack of patriotism. I don't think it would have been any louder if we put his crib in the middle of the percussion section of the Seattle Symphony Orchestra. But you know what?
The kid didn't wake up. HE SLEPT RIGHT THROUGH IT.
This being the child who didn't sleep through the night until he was 14 months old. At one point, I actually became overwhelming terrified that he was dead because he made not a peep after 10 rockets blasted off one after another, not 20 feet from his bedroom window (which overlooks the street, I might add). I snuck into his room -- which didn't involve much sneaking, as you wouldn't have heard me if I marched in playing a tuba, considering all the noise of the fireworks -- and found him curled up on his side, cuddling his Sleep Dog and dreaming of those bizarre creatures on Yo Gabba Gabba!, or whatever toddlers dream about. Unfortunately, DH and I didn't have quite as much luck sleeping through it all. But eventually, we all drifted off.
Enough blabbing, it's picture time!
Last Wednesday, I took Bean to the Seattle Children's Museum. Which totally ROCKS, by the way. It was nominated by Nickelodeon as a Parents' Pick for Best Museum, so we knew it would be awesome. When has Nickelodeon ever let me down? I mean seriously, Snick, anyone? So we were supposed to go with three friends from preschool, but they all backed out at the last minute for various reasons. I talked it over with Bean, and we decided that WE DON'T NEED NO STINKIN' FRIENDS so we went just the two of us. Here he is exploring some of the exhibits.
Bean has this strange (and completely safe!) habit of wrapping the dog's leash around his shoulders and walking around the house. I personally think he looks like a tailor. (And in that second picture, a slightly tipsy one. Watch where you're pinning that, Bean!)