Why Didn't I Think of That?

I love the resourcefulness of kids. Who would have thought that these handy dandy gel pads I've been keeping around in the hall closet in case I ever have to nurse a new baby could be used on your hands to make them stick to walls like Spiderman? Duh, why didn't I think of that? 

At least I know now that there is lots of brain activity going on in that little Evan head. I was beginning to wonder. How many million billion times can you ask one little boy to get dressed, put his shoes on, make his bed, etc., etc.?

A Long Indulgent Stroll Down Memory Lane Involving Love Letters, Enchiladas and Wesson Oil

Back in the day when I was in college, I used to do a lot of crazy and silly pranks. I know you would never believe this of me, being the very straight-laced and serious individual that I am now in my maturity. One particular thing I did was write psycho-chick love letters for one of my favorite roomies Shelley to this guy named Dale. Shelley worked with Dale at BYU Independent Study. Dale also happened to be in the same ward and apartment complex.

Shelley didn't have a crush on Dale. In fact, Shelley didn't even ask me to write love letters for her. I did it all out of the goodness of my heart because that's just the kind of person I am. I even helped her lock Dale in his apartment with a rope made out of nylons known as the lasso of love.

(Thankfully Shelley still loves me, as evidenced by the fact that she is still willing to be my friend some ten years later. See, here we are this summer in Park City with our other roomies Angela and Becky.)

As you may surmise, it was all a big joke really. And Dale was a good sport about receiving crazy letters. One of my favorite lines from a love letter we sent him went something like this:

I'm going to stand outside your apartment,

Pour Wesson oil in my hair

And light it on fire

Because I want to be your torch burning bright.



Brilliant stuff, eh?

So I had reason to remember this memorable line recently when I was making chicken enchiladas for my sister-in-law Melinda. Melinda was celebrating her birthday and had requested this dish for her birthday dinner. The enchilada recipe calls for frying each tortilla in oil for a few seconds. It's a pain and it's fattening, but hey it was for a good cause.

I finished frying the tortillas, laid out my enchilada assembly line and got to work. I had finished one 9x13 pan when all of sudden I smelled something really stinky. Something that smelled like burning oil. Yes, I had forgotten to turn the stove off. As I turned around, clouds of Wesson oil smoke started billowing up around me. Heroically, I managed to turn off the stove and take the offending pan outside. The CIA training comes in handy in emergency situations.

That, of course, was not the end of it. No, that hideous odor of cooking oil hung around in the kitchen like an unwelcome house guest. The kitchen stunk of it. My clothes, my hair all smelled like Mr. Wesson. Then Mr. Wesson went upstairs and got into all the bedrooms and bathrooms and nooks and crannies. Mr. Wesson even had the nerve to stick around all week long.

Mr. Wesson's constant presence in my life made me remember that old love letter I wrote so long ago. I started thinking about the whole image of Wesson oil burning in one's hair. Now with the practical knowledge of what Wesson oil on fire really smells like, I realize that it would not be at all romantic to have burning Wesson oil in your hair. No. It would be really stinky.

But maybe if it were lavender oil, it would be quite nice. What do you think?

Just a little stroll down memory lane for me this week. Yes, I do all of this for my own amusement. It's cheaper than therapy.