Hey! It’s New Year’s day, so whatever you do, DO NOT EAT THAT CHICKEN!!
Let me introduce you to my husband, Dr. Gellar. No, not Ross from friends, but Ross from friends. See where I’m going? He’s a scientist at heart, a chemistry major (I know!), and he’s brilliant, a sponge who soaks up information and when squeezed, will drench you with his knowledge. He makes life interesting, and I adore him. And his porous brain.
Here’s a little glimpse into our life today.
Dr. Gellar: “Do you want steak or pork chops for dinner?” (He’s the cook in the family. I can make spaghetti and frozen pizza. And I’m not even Italian.)
Me: “I thought you were going to make chicken.”
Dr. Gellar: “I can’t make chicken on New Year’s day,” he says as if I should know this already, his brow furrowing in frustration at my stupidity.
Me: “Why?” I really don’t want to know. He’s probably just watched some show on National Geographic about how chickens contain arson and that people who eat chicken end up losing brain matter with every swallow. And we eat a lot of chicken. So that must explain why I’m so stupid.
Dr. Gellar sighs and looks down at me, not because he’s condescending, but he’s 6’3″, and I’m 5’3″, so if he looks at me, he looks down. I digress.
Dr. Gellar takes a big cleansing breath, one that I am all too familiar with, one that tells me he’s about to lecture, and I’m going to wish I could take back my question.
Dr. Gellar: “You know how we always eat black eyed peas and cabbage on New Year’s Day?”
Me: “Uh-huh.” Where in hell is he going with this, I think to myself.
Dr. Gellar: “Chickens scratch in the dirt for food, which is symbolic. We don’t want to be scratching in the dirt for food. And another thing, as the chicken scratches in the dirt for his food, he moves backward, which is also symbolic.” He demonstrates, standing in front of me, scratching at he air with his imaginary talons, walking backwards. Then he looks up all serious and says, “We want to go forward, dude.”
Me: “So you want to eat pork?”
Dr. Gellar: “Yes, pigs route forward when they forage for food.” See, who talks like that? This is what I live with, people.
Me: “Yeah, but pigs roll around in their own shit. I don’t want to roll around in my own shit this year.”
Dr. Gellar sighs again. “You’re missing the point.”
Me: “You want to move forward, but you’re ok with rolling around in shit. Is that your point?”
Dr. Gellar: “Then get steaks.” He resigns. All frustrated and annoyed with me.
Me: “Eck. I can’t eat beef.” Dr. Gellar made a superb prime rib for Christmas dinner, a huge prime rib, on which we’ve feasted for a week. Then I got the flu and faced death. I’m not exaggerating. The thought of beef turns me green. I can’t imagine eating any kind of meat really. But beef. I just can’t.
Dr. Gellar: “Then get pork.”
Me: “But I don’t want to get a brain worm.”
Dr. Gellar sighs and starts to lecture me for the 97th time about how I cannot get a brain worm from eating pork that I buy at our grocery store, but I’m not convinced. We’ve danced around this subject so many times. I argue, but in the end, I get the pork, and he’s currently seasoning said pork, which will probably be delicious, but if I never blog again, well then you’ll know. I got a brain worm.
What are your New Year’s traditions? Do you eat black eyed peas and cabbage? Do you fear that feathery little chicken like my husband does? Are you superstitious? Am I missing something? Dr. Gellar seems to think so…a lot.