The House Full o' Peepul went well. (I have to admit it--I read that sentence and a little voice in my head wails, "The house is like Soylent Green! It's PEEPUL!") We had enough food and no one threw up eating it. No one broke anything in the house or on their bodies, and there's a minimal amount of mess to clean up thanks to the combined efforts of many of the peepul, who rock the casbah.
I was in charge of the cooking, so I was mostly concerned about that, particularly since our head count ran anywhere from five (that would be Slayer, me, the Batson, and twins Left and Right) to 35 (that would be Slayer, me, the Batson, twins Left and Right, and a bunch of other peepul). It's hard to make sure that you've got the right amount of food when you honestly have no idea how many peepul are going to show up, but I did mighty well if I do say so myself, which is a stupid phrase because obviously I just did.
I like cooking. It's kind of a Zen thing, something to do with my hands while I ponder important topics such as what I should use to install a set of Batbrows on a Batman mask. For some reason, the Batbrows in my mental picture look like bright orange caterpillars, and I do not want to harm caterpillars of any hue in the making of my Batbrow mask.
Wow. Hello, tangent. I'm Carrie.
This weekend was especially nice because the turnout ended up being more around the 35 peepul mark, and that meant that I had help chopping. Because this is undoubtedly my least favorite part of cooking. This may have something to do with the time that I chopped the tip of my finger off. (Ya think?)
I sold knives for about one week during the summer before I left for college. It was one of those house-to-house things, and one of my neighbors graciously offered to listen to my schpiel, even though we all knew she wasn't going to buy a damned thing. So there I am, slicing through a rope to prove how sharp the knives are when I cut off the tip of my finger instead. It went something like this:
"Notice how easily this knife cuts through a coil of rope. Imagine how easy it will be to slice through a nice big... finger! Um... Uh... Oops. Don't mind the spurting; it really isn't as bad as it looks. *tucks finger in armpit and quickly puts away red-tinged rope* Okay! Do you want me to cut up an apple before I pass out from blood loss?"
I just checked, though, and I'm happy to report that my fingers are the same length. And obviously, I quit that job immediately after the shortening of my finger. Because I did not relish a future in which my friends affectionately referred to me as Stubby.