Poison Poisson

First there was the mythologically bad "Greek Flounder" episode wherein I baked a gorgeous, pink fillet the size of a human infant into a complete, ungodly mush, then the dover sole I broiled with a little olive oil, lemon slices, and Ali'i Kula Lavender Seasoning Blend that was absolutely delish—and then there was last night's fish.

Again, I bought the dover sole fillets from Ralph's (packaged from the "fish and meat shoppe" display after it had closed for the day), and again I used my easy, tasty broiling recipe that was so yummy last week. Maybe these fillets were thicker and I didn't broil them long enough...they seemed overdone on the edges, but not quite "flaking easily with a fork" in the center. I didn't want them to get any dryer, so I took them out and decided they were done. It didn't taste bad per se, but it sure didn't taste fabulous. I ate half and then decided it just wasn't good, and I tossed the rest.

My stomach started churning shortly thereafter, and within a few hours, well...I won't go into the gory details, but suffice it to say, the digestive system just isn't supposed to work that way. Garrrrrrrrrrrr.

Hey, that reminds me: it's International Talk Like a Pirate Day and I completely forgot. Oh, well, thar she blows. (Yeah, you think that pun made you groan? I'll give you groaning. Come here and eat this fish I just made you.)

After eating soft, innocuous foods and drinking a lot of fluids today, I decided I could properly digest something, and I had these Zesty Lemon chicken breasts that I bought along with the fish. (Don't worry, it wasn't Ralph's "fish and meat shoppe," chicken, it was a prepackaged Zacky Farms thing; nothing untoward will follow.) It said "best if grilled," and I thought, Hey, I haven't used my mini-Weber all summer and the damn season's almost gone, and so what if it's already 5:00? There was this fabulous golden undertone to the blue-gray overcast San Francisco sky, and a sweet smelling breeze, and one gorgeous pink bloom on my aphid-ravaged Betty Boop rosebush, and I happened to have an unopened bag of charcoal briquets, so I fired up the Weber and threw on the breasts, and with very little fuss, I had made some really tasty chicken. How damn hard was that? Why don't I cook more often? Why don't I grill more often? Why don't I go outside more often?

Anyway, I managed to squeeze some pleasure out of an otherwise unpleasant day of stomach upset, JavaScript menu-tweaking frustration of Sisyphusian proportions, and an acute episode of "crazy brain and impending doom," and now I'm watching Jennifer Love Hewitt's breasts bounce on Ghost Whisperer, and ultimately, I think I have earned a nice bath with lavender salts, candles, and incense. Of course, that means I'll have to spend 20 minutes scrubbing the tub, which will trigger my OCD because the old porcelain never feels clean, and there are stains that never come out. I'll let you know how it goes.