Tuna Masala

Today The Boy and I made our first venture into Indian cooking with some left over chicken and a whole bunch of spices. None of those spices, I might add, are the three new containers of Indian spices that I bought last week from vague recollections of recipes I had read. So now I’ll be looking up recipes that specifically call for curry, turmeric, and coriander. Woe is me.

As I was mixing the marinade for our masala, I was having a pretty awesome day. And then I started to pull chicken, left over from Sunday’s dinner (a story in itself), from the bones and dropping it into the marinade. Just as I reached the point of no return – and no stopping – I realized that I’d forgotten to pick up our vegetables from the co-op. And I had half an hour. I put my poultry picking into overdrive.

Meanwhile, Obi was circling my feet and crying. Wouldn’t I please give him some chicken?

No time for feeding a little brown mooch, I finished with the chicken and threw the marinating shreds into the refrigerator. Because I’m not oblivious to my poor starving kitten’s plight, I tossed the chicken skeletons back into their baggie and put it into the refrigerator as well.

Then I was off! Luckily, the co-op is at a store that is only ten minutes away from my house. I had time to get there, gab with the ladies at the store, load up my veggies and get home before my time was up. While I was gone, The Boy came home. He put away veggies.

Then I put him to work.

While The Boy finished cooking the masala, I found a quite respectable amount of chicken left on the bones. I picked it all off and made a pile on the two plates in the breakfast nook. I called the kittens. Since The Boy and I had said “tuna” about forty times in the last ten minutes, Kitten Thunder was a little surprised to find chicken on their plates.

But it was ear licking good.

So, I might add, was our chicken masala.

 

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The Truth About Fight Club and the Curse of the Mama

Oliver has HUGE gashes over each eye this week. One is actually kind of deep and I’m keeping an eye on it to make sure we don’t have a doctor visit in our future. He also has a cut on his eyelid. That one I saw happen.

Oliver was scratching the bald spot over his eye with his back foot. In case you’re new to this blog, Oliver’s back claws don’t retract. Some times he forgets this. Like…often. So he’s scratching away at that itchy cut over his eye and misses; he kicks himself in the eye.

There was blood. There was tears. There was a grey kitten who didn’t really want me to pry open his eye to look at his cornea.

It was fine.

So…that answers the question about Fight Club. Which, if you’ve seen the movie, you’ve suspected all along.

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Not only was I cruel to Oliver, forcing him to take my medical care, I also cursed Obi this weekend. As if I’m not mean enough to him already.

The Boy and I were in the kitchen and Obi was laying on the floor showing us how cute he is. The cloth bag we get our co-op veggies from had fallen off its hook and was on the floor. Obi leapt at it and missed the opening so he was hiding behind it. I helped for two seconds by propping the opening of the bag so it was more open.

As I left the kitchen to go take a shower I mentioned that we should probably not encourage him to play with our cloth bag. After all, he could accidentally turn it  into a Super Man cape and strangle himself. The Boy agreed, but they were playing when I left.

I can’t find the blog about the time Obi accidentally made a cape out of a plastic grocery bag and made four laps around the house in a panic before hiding under the bed in my office where I was able to liberate him – from a bag that was, by that time, full of kitten pee. He’s still terrified of plastic bags.

Well, as if I’d cursed him, it took Obi about half a minute after I left the room to get caught up in the fabric bag. This one he wore under his body so he wasn’t able to get up much speed and actually liberated himself before The Boy caught up to him.

Obi still wanted me to hold him and kiss his ears while The Boy told me of his harrowing experience. The brown kitten looked up at me, a little unsure about whether I could be responsible. It is hard to decide what to do when you don’t know if you can trust the mama. After all, I make it all better.

Well, I at least hang up the bag.

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Happy birthday to my dad! Kitten Thunder performed a super nap in your honor this afternoon.