The Lord & Master has suffered from a mild cold this week, but has carried on as though he’s got pnuemonia. (Yet I couldn’t talk him out of a roll in the hay. For that, he was well enough.) I’m currently brewing the third batch of homemade chicken soup to soothe the savage beast. I agree totally that nothing beats Jewish penicillin, but, believe me, he’s really not that sick.
“Why don’t you feel sorry for me?” he pleads.
“Why should I? You feel so sorry for yourself.”
Am I a bitch? Perhaps. But he does go on and on and on. If only he’d summon the courage to actually blow his nose. Or hock up some phlegm. For unknown reasons, my beloved bruiser is too dainty for such activities. (I, of course, feel no such restraint. Perhaps you’ve seen me practicing my precision sidewalk spitting while walking the dog.)
Actually, I take great pride in my chicken soup, and can whip it up in my sleep. The secret – reallly, you must try this trick – is to strain the liquid through a cheesecloth lined strainer after simmering for one hour.
Honestly, I don’t mind babying my baby. As Sassafras observed when she was but a fourth grader, “You mother Daddy.” “That’s right,” I told her, “His own mother didn’t do such a hot job, so I’m picking up her slack.”
Liquid gold, coming right up. At least when he’s slurping he can’t be complaining. Feel better, my sweetheart.