March 2, 2014
I’d left the six breaded
drumsticks in Mrs “Bs” oven last night. Yes, it was turned “OFF.” I didn’t
realize until 2:00am, give or take a few hours. Impossible to call her and ask
to toss the pan in the freezer, or better yet, place them in a plastic ziplock
to store. Unfortunately, by the time I could reach her, she insists I come to
her place and take care of the cooked poultry.
Mirrors smashed against
the door of vehicles parked along the side of the road, indicate a slippery
street. Creeping along, breaking every few feet is the only solution. Getting
to Mrs. “B’s” chicken rescue takes twice as long as it should. I open the door
to her place and find her, none to keen on my error, telling me I need to take
the chicken home for the dog, she cannot eat it. I will buy her another package
of drumsticks and Shake ‘N Bake them my next scheduled day. Toss a salad and
heat up her dinner while she runs to the toilet. Now I am a very unhappy camper
but know the Park Ranger has spoken.
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