Hilary's Zoo

Doom

If anyone out there (Mom) is wondering why postings around here got sparse and stingy right around Christmas, I will tell you:  Personal Apocalypse.

Here's what happened after Christmas:

1.  Canine zoo animal felled by mysterious diarrheal affliction.  Panic.  Enormous vet bills are generated.  Most egregious fleecing: a $334 abdominal ultrasound (and one accompanying shaved dog belly, which the Zookeepers like to rub while saying "look at dis pork belly").  Ultimate diagnosis: mysterious liver lesion that does not appear malignant.  Prognosis: Lifetime prescription of (expensive) milk thistle (milk thistle!) for healthy liver function, and a normal lifespan.

2.  Feline zoo animal felled by mysterious respiratory affliction.  Panic.  Battle lines are drawn when the vet attempts to draw blood  examine the cat  get within ten feet of the cat, which prompts the cat to unleash a great fury totally disproportionate to his compact size.  Vet: zero, Cat: 1.  Enormous vet bills are generated, anyway.  In lieu of an adequate physical examination, which the cat effectively cancelled by going berserk, the vet resorts to a generic sort of patch-up.  Aided by one vet tech, one towel and two chain mail gloves, the vet manages to grab hold of the cat's left rear haunch long enough to sink a giant syringe full of mega-antibiotics into his muscle.  The cat gets better.  Ultimate diagnosis: mad cow disease?  Prognosis: Our vet may have fired us.

3.  An Incident.

4.  Vehicle felled by affliction of the brakes and tires.  Let me first assure you that ZB and I drive our vehicle about one hundred feet a week.  We've had it 18 months and put, I believe, 4,000 miles on it.  That includes two round trips between Connecticut and Virginia.  So we were mightily surprised (no, we weren't) when we dropped Ol' Reliable off for an oil change and heard back from our mechanic that we were lucky the tires hadn't fallen off weeks ago.  Usually, I would take this sort of news with a big roll of the eyes, but 1) we knew the tires and brakes were going bad, and 2) we seem to have found the one mechanic in the universe who is widely praised as being straightforward and trustworthy.  No, I will not tell you who it is.  Not until we move and I don't need him anymore.  Anyway, 4 tires+4 brakes+1 oil change+1 air filter+2 windshield wipers=$1,348.92.  Christmas and birthdays are cancelled for the rest of the year.

5.  Zookeeper A's computer felled by mysterious hardware affliction.  I don't want to talk about all the things I tried to get it working again.  I would have converted to Scientology to revive that machine, but it was resolute in its decision to die.  Fortunately, the photos and documents are safe.  Unfortunately, a new computer is moving in at the Zoo.  Damage: $859.99.

This string of events began around December 27th and will (hopefully) draw to a close exactly today, when the new computer is delivered.  I would say it's all just a bout of bad luck, but I am increasingly convinced that this town is evil and the evil has seeped into our household and poisoned everything in it.  Did I mention Zookeeper B's back is hurting today?  This might be item number six on the above list.  We only have 7.5 months to go  before we can vacate this accursed land permanently, but now I'm paranoid that the evil is trying to inflict maximum damage on our property and emotions before we leave.

I am not a superstitious person.

That might be changing.

In other news, I passed the first section of the CPA exam.  However, I will almost certainly not pass the section that I am taking a week from tomorrow.  I was supposed to be studying for the last eight weeks.  As you may recall, if you read the preceding paragraphs, I was suffering through a personal apocalypse at the time.  I'm doing some catch-up cramming but my expectations are set for "Embarrassing Failure".  I hope you feel sorry for me. I deserve it.

Fried chickenlets

If you didn't have what I just had for dinner, your should feel free to fling yourself on your couch in despair.  And sob.  And wail.

Fried chickenlets, courtesy of Zookeeper B and his new best friend, the deep fat fryer:

<Spa day for raw chickenlets: a buttermilk soak>

<Pre Fry>

<Fried>

<Chickychickychickychickychickychickychickychickychicky>

<There are cat furs stuck to the chicken, and on my thumb.  This is normal.  I frequently pet the cat and then resume eating.  Don't you judge me>

Scotch egg & fetus

I've written about Scotch eggs before (here, for instance).  They are the perfect food.  If given the opportunity, I would eat them exclusively, and always.  So Zookeeper B, who has made a hobby out of indulging every whim I've ever had, learned to make them.

We had a bit of luck recently: a deep fat fryer appeared under our Christmas tree, courtesy of my sister:

As if we didn't eat terribly enough already.  My family is very good about encouraging bad habits.  It's a big part of why I love them so much.

By the way, my sister is finally knocked up.  It appears my ancient campaign for her to give me a niece or nephew has paid off.  The due date is late July (three days after ZB's bar exam!).  In advance of the fetus' arrival, I'm rigging my sister's house with home security cameras.  I have her permission!  Those cameras will feed to a secure website, where I will be able to monitor the baby 24/7.  This is my first niece or nephew.  This is serious.  Constant surveillance is, I feel, the bare minimum required to keep the little bundle of humanoid cells safe.  Do not talk to me about personal freedom and the folly of Big Brother type monitoring.  The fetus has no personal freedom.  It belongs to my sister, and her husband, and me, and Zookeeper B.  It is ours, and therefore all concerns about its liberty are moot.  Here is the fetus in its current form:

<Mmmmyyyy pppprrrrresshhhusssssss>

Enough about the neonate!  Scotch eggs are the star of the evening.  Scotch eggs a la Zookeeper B.  Like this:

<Susej>

<Soft boiled eggs wrapped in susej>

<Panko crumbs>

<Assembly>

<Eggs in!>

<Bawling erl>

<Missed a spot>

<Finished!>

<ZB!  He did it!>

<NOM>

Guess who received no Scotch egg?  This one:

Nor did this one:

The biggest surprise was that these Scotch eggs tasted identical to the ones we've put away at The Breslin.  I am not making that up.  The crunch was even the same.  The only difference, and who really cares, is that ZB wrapped his eggs in a thinner layer of sausage.  This did not matter.  ZB is magic.  His Scotch eggs are magic.  He's promised to make them tomorrow for dinner, and again on Saturday.  I love a Scotch egg.  I will eat them all.