In Which mrpeenee Raises a Stink

Grisly remains.  RIP, dear little rice pot.

O dear god, I just got distracted (not by porn, oddly enough.) and burned a pot of rice, the stench of which is so bad I'm considering abandoning ship.  The whole sad affair brought to mind the only kitchen tip I was ever handed before I moved of my parents'  home for life on my own.  Of course, it was not produced by my mother, who assumed I would have some little wifey to handle all that domestic stuff and thus didn't need to be equipped with any.  Hilarious.  Instead, the mother of a friend came across with this:

If you're cooking something in a pot with a lid and you smell it burning, do not take the lid off. Instead, fill the sink with cold water as fast as possible and carefully put the pot in.

The pot will make this terrific and scary hissing noisy, but if you're lucky, you can often salvage the contents.  Not tonight, since what I have is some kind of carbohydrate-based charcoal now, but sometimes.  Also, pay attention to the part about "do not take the lid off."  Your first reaction to the stink is to think "Is that burning?" and want to look to check.  Do not fall for that.  If you can smell the smoke, it's burning.

I can't tell you how many times that little gem has come in handy, although possibly more handy would be the one that goes "Do not leave the fucking kitchen when you've got a pot on the stove, idiot."

Super Seven

What do you mean it's August?  The hell?   How do these things happen?

It's true I've been rather distracted lately by hosting guests for their own wedding and visiting New Orleans on a retail spree and competing with the cats to see who can sleep the most in one day, but that doesn't excuse missing two important (to me, and who else counts?) anniversaries in July.

The first was Saki, the Evil and Adorable cat's birthday, his seventh, on July 7.  Yes, 7/7/07 and now it's number seven, so maybe this year will be lucky for him.  Having ripped up both white leather chairs in the living room, he is now turning his attention to converting the back guest room into a spare cat box, so he's probably going to need all the luck he can get if I catch him pooping in there one more time.

And my blog, this title piece of heaven, also turned seven a few days ago, but again, I was sleeping, so, oops.  In case you wondering, here is the first post, from all those long years ago:

But who is mrpeenee?
I’m a nice guy, that’s who. I hide it successfully under a mask of brittle bitterness, but I would be happy to save orphan kittys and old ladies from burning buildings if I just weren’t so darn busy downloading porn and staring out the window. My long suffering lover, R Man, and I live in San Francisco where I work for the federal government making wildly inaccurate statements to the press and running the training program for entrepreneurs for the SBA here. I am occasionally surprised to realize how respectable I am.

I grew up in Texas, but never understood what white trash I am until I left. How was I supposed to know nice people didn’t put mayonnaise on their French fries?

I gotta go.

So seven years later and all I've learned is how to include photos of muscly young men.  Hmm.