Yesterday, I went out to the garden and gathered some asparagus. Lovely, lovely!
When I came in, I heard my husband calling me from the bathroom. "I need you to bandage something for me." The place looked like a slaughterhouse--blood everywhere. I feared the worst. As it happened, he had cut his fingers--not too badly, but several of them--while cleaning his chain saw. Bled copiously. We got antibacterial on the cuts and antibiotic ointment, and I wrapped them up. We had to move from the sink to the throne and then to the living room floor, as he gets woozy at the sight of blood.
By the time I had gotten him fixed up and cleaned the bathroom so it didn't look like the set of a Hannibal Lector movie, it was later than I usually fix supper.
One of the things I made was: portobello mushroom slices and asparagus stems in sherry and garlic-infused olive oil, covered and simmered. While it was simmering, I went in to check my email and got involved. When I went back in, the sherry had all cooked out and the vegetables were blackened on the underside. Just for penance, I ate a piece. It was good! I put in some more sherry and the asparagus tips and WATCHED it this time until the tips were crisp-tender. I called it "pan-grilled asparagus and mushrooms" and it was pretty darned good.
So far, Charlie seems to be okay except for his pride.