Suess's Pieces

“Taubensee” by Dan Poehlman

My ten-year-old pup is epileptic. He takes phenobarbital twice a day, every day to lessen the frequency and severity of his seizures, but it’s not a magic pill exactly. Sometimes one of those nasty things still breaks through. Taub knows when one is coming on, and he will do his best to find a human to make him feel better.

“Em!” Dan yelled to me from the living room, “I think Taub’s having a seizure.” I left the skillet in the sink and went to check on Taub. He was a little wobbly on his feet. Taub waited for Dan and I to sit down right next to him, and then he promptly puked on my living room carpet.

Dan got paper towels and I ran to get the SpotBot. When I came back, Dan was scooping chunks into a garbage bag. He looked up at me and made a face. I immediately set the carpet cleaner down.

In the past, my experience with Taubensee’s seizures and subsequent puking was to be utterly abandoned—left to console the dog, myself, and then clean up whatever physical damage had been done on my own. Sometimes, I would be reminded that money wasn’t meant to be spent on pet health and veterinarians. No moral support from Whatshisface, and certainly never any lifting of the proverbial finger to help a girl out. So it was with great wonder that I watched Dan do the dirty work before saying, “I will never, ever leave you.”

Talk to the Ove Glove.

Last night Dan and I roasted a chicken in the pan I promised to review for CSN Stores. So let’s get that disclosure thing out of the way:

I got this roasting pan with a $50 gift certificate that was given to me on the condition I promised to write a review of the product I chose. Small price to pay. I like blogging about food and cooking. Anyone who feels like calling me a sellout should remember that I write for money.

When Dan first took the roasting pan out of the box, he was a little more critical than I. “It’s a little thinner than I expected,” he said. “Still, it looks nice. I can’t wait to roast a chicken.”

After the brine, before the butter.

All I could manage was to clap my hands together stupidly and say, “Shiny!”

Dan let the chicken hang out in a brine for a while. Then we made a compound butter put lovely pats of it all over the bird. “Eww, I said, “there is juice coming out of that chicken’s butt.”

“Swiss, I’ve never seen someone so afraid of food.”

“I’m not scared of food. I’m afraid of touching it before it’s cooked.”

After Dan finished laughing at me, we roasted the 7-pounder in the oven for a couple of hours.

Lots of butter.

The chicken was perfect. When it was time to clean up, I wondered if I could get the pan to look like it did fresh out of the box. As I was hand scrubbing and rinsing the stainless steel, I said, “I know you thought it cold be thicker, but I’m glad it doesn’t weigh much more.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. It didn’t warp in the oven, so it’s good.” While there are a couple of character marks on the pan after being used, it’s still beautiful. Still shiny.

Voila! Perfectly browned.

Now I just need to find a place for it in my kitchen.

I love my pan. I love the chicken. And I love my boyfriend because he makes me love cooking.

Dan, bless his stinger, takes a lot of prescription drugs. I’m not going to list them for you, because the man deserves a little privacy. But wow. When he’s in Indy we make a special place in the refrigerator for the particularly particular varieties. The rest of the plastic orange cylinders end up scattered on tables and nightstands or overflowing from the Mysterious Tan Duffel Bag of Southeast Wisconsin.

One time his Vicodin ran out before he made it back to Milwaukee, and I said something smart like, “Try licking your finger, sticking it in the empty pill bottle and swirling, and then licking the magic dust off your finger.” He laughed that little well-aren’t-you-just-too-clever laugh. But I swear on his Battlestar Galactica, The Complete Series® that he tried it later when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Can’t blame him, really. If I lived with that kind of pain I’d be awfully fond of those yummy acetaminophen and hydrocodone candies too. Jokes help though. So we often make fun of his mobile pharmacy.

And that reminds me of the time I went to Milwaukee in January. Before hitting the interstate, I stopped in at my local Marsh Supermarket for a breakfast of doughnut holes and orange juice and bought two twenty-ounce Throwback Mountain Dews for the road. I climbed back in the Malibu and hit the little button on my bluetooth to let Dan know I was on my way.

“Please say a command,” the voice activated contraption prompted.

“Call Dan Poehlman,” I said mechanically.

It had trouble deciphering my words so it asked for clarification. “Did you say ‘Call CVS?’”

Taubensee tilted his little doggy head at me while I laughed at the irony. “No,” I answered.

“Did you say ‘Call Dan Poehlman?’” it asked again.

“Yes,” I said loudly.

The phone rang and Dan picked up. “Baby!” he shouted.

“Oh my God, Dan. You are never going to believe what just happened.”

“I’m writing a blog post,” Dan said.

“Hmph,” I grumbled. “I’ve been staring at a blinking cursor for the past hour, so I might hate you now.”

“Well… I know! Why don’t you write some porn?”

And that reminded me of a little e-mail forward that was floating around the office this week. It claims to be an excerpt from a 1960′s sex education textbook for women:

Should your husband suggest any of the more unusual practices, be obedient and uncomplaining but register any reluctance by remaining silent.

I have decided to edit a new edition of this text pro bono. (No, Dan. That only sounds like porn). The same passage updated for 2010:

Should your husband suggest any of the more unusual practices, be obedient and uncomplaining, registering any reluctance by remaining silent. But remember ladies: there is a way to tell a man to go frack himself without uttering a single word.