I spend the weekend plagued with mice in my kitchen. They are coming in from the field stone basement and are remarkably bold in camping out behind my stove and refrigerator. So I have to get creative with my food storage and prep to avoid seeing another mouse sitting on a pizza box like a damn boss.
I end up cooking a pot roast in the crock pot on the kitchen table. It's an excellent pot roast, too, made with red wine and some extra spices, and I set dinner up in the living room, which is on the opposite end of the house from the mouse portal. There's a shrimp ring, as well, so my son and I eat well.
Needing a little something else, I bring the fixings for guacamole into the living room. I carve and chop and scoop and squeeze until the guac is perfect. Tortilla chips are added on the side, and now we have an outstanding snack.
Shit.
The last thing I want is to encourage the mice to migrate to the front of the house before the exterminator arrives. I search the floor. Nothing. Nothing on my sneakers, pants, or shirt. Nothing on the table. Nothing on my computer. I cannot find the errant guacamole anywhere, and I start doubting whether any fell at all.
I continue half-working and half-watching the ball game. I swig at my beer. Suddenly, I get something solid into my mouth. My first thought instantly goes dark: I've swallowed a mouse. I quickly spit whatever the solid might be into my napkin.
Surprise! Guacamole!
Yup, the errant guac I spilled off my chip a few minutes before has landed exactly inside the neck of the beer bottle and splashed into my beer. I am a reasonably good shot, but there is no way I could make that shot if I tried.
If only I could send some of that great aim to the field. Oh, well. I'll enjoy that great play, just the same. Cheers!
