ahream

You know how most of the time you walk around thinking you’re a reasonably intelligent person doing reasonably intelligent things. Then suddenly and without warning, you prove to not only yourself, but the rest of the free world, just what a nincompoop you really are.

One of the great things about writing for a living is that when it’s time for a lunch break, I just mosey on into the kitchen and stick my head in the fridge, sniffing around for something that looks edible. (The other great thing is getting to work in your underwear, but that’s a whole other post.) The other day, I settled on a soy-veggie-tofu-faux-chicken patty thingy. Recommended heating method: oven. No problem. I work from home. I have one of those. So I dump one of the frozen hockey pucks onto a pie plate, turn on the oven and set the timer. Twenty minutes to soy-veggie-tofu-faux-chicken goodness.

Twenty minutes later, the timer goes off. I grab a pot holder, open the over door and ... And absolutely nothing. My soy patty was gone. The pie plate was gone. I stood up and closed the door. “What the f – ” I open the oven door again – like I thought it might be one of those magician’s boxes. Nope, still not there. I turn a circle scanning my kitchen. Not on the counter, not in the sink, not on the stove top. Not anywhere.

So I did what any reasonably intelligent person would do. I tried to figure out what the oven did with it.

Despite intensive interrogation, the appliance wouldn’t crack. So I turned to a human foe, which might’ve worked better if I wasn’t home alone.

“Who the hell breaks into someone’s apartment and steals a soy patty?!” I demanded of my furniture. “It’s not even real chicken!”

But the couch wasn’t talking either.

There was only one thing to do. Nuke some leftovers. Another scan of the fridge turned up some Chinese takeout that hadn’t yet developed gross motor skills, so I plopped it onto a plate, opened the microwave and ...

found the soy patty sitting on the pie plate inside.

If the authorities come to take away my driver’s license, I’ll understand.

ahream Dispatches from the City of Angels I'm a mystery writer living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my short story, "Running Venice," in the new anthology LAndmarked for Murder. Look for it in bookstores and on Amazon.com now. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (1) Most Recent Twitters: A 3-foot long alligator was found walking down the middle of the street in Venice Beach this morning. I love L.A. In case you were wondering, it is very difficult to get a hummingbird out of your house. They are irrational and prone to hysterics. L.A. Finds: The Nickel Diner on Main between 5th and 6th is a made-to-look-old, throwback of a place that melds into the old downtown and is, at the same time, part of the renaissance. They serve their burgers medium, their soda in bottles and offer all they can to locals in need. Flickr Updates: The second Thursday of every month is the Downtown Art Walk. The galleries stay open late, the restaurants are packed, bands perform on the streets. God, I love L.A. What I'm Reading: Attack of the Unsinkable Rubber Ducks by Christopher Brookmyre What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami Want E-Mail Updates? Click here, type your e-mail address into the first field (for public entries) and receive an e-mail note each time a new blog post goes up. (Photo updates, Twitters and "L.A. Finds" features not included. Those you have to swing by and check yourself.) Absolutely, positively no spam. Promise. Other author blogs: Sue Ann Jaffarian Eric Stone Christa Faust Lipstick Chronicles		2006-03-09 3:13 PM Soy burglars You know how most of the time you walk around thinking you’re a reasonably intelligent person doing reasonably intelligent things. Then suddenly and without warning, you prove to not only yourself, but the rest of the free world, just what a nincompoop you really are. One of the great things about writing for a living is that when it’s time for a lunch break, I just mosey on into the kitchen and stick my head in the fridge, sniffing around for something that looks edible. (The other great thing is getting to work in your underwear, but that’s a whole other post.) The other day, I settled on a soy-veggie-tofu-faux-chicken patty thingy. Recommended heating method: oven. No problem. I work from home. I have one of those. So I dump one of the frozen hockey pucks onto a pie plate, turn on the oven and set the timer. Twenty minutes to soy-veggie-tofu-faux-chicken goodness. Twenty minutes later, the timer goes off. I grab a pot holder, open the over door and ... And absolutely nothing. My soy patty was gone. The pie plate was gone. I stood up and closed the door. “What the f – ” I open the oven door again – like I thought it might be one of those magician’s boxes. Nope, still not there. I turn a circle scanning my kitchen. Not on the counter, not in the sink, not on the stove top. Not anywhere. So I did what any reasonably intelligent person would do. I tried to figure out what the oven did with it. Despite intensive interrogation, the appliance wouldn’t crack. So I turned to a human foe, which might’ve worked better if I wasn’t home alone. “Who the hell breaks into someone’s apartment and steals a soy patty?!” I demanded of my furniture. “It’s not even real chicken!” But the couch wasn’t talking either. There was only one thing to do. Nuke some leftovers. Another scan of the fridge turned up some Chinese takeout that hadn’t yet developed gross motor skills, so I plopped it onto a plate, opened the microwave and ... found the soy patty sitting on the pie plate inside. If the authorities come to take away my driver’s license, I’ll understand. Read/Post Comments (1) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top