Chicken Poppyseed Casserole Redux and a Flashback

When The Husband and I first started dating, Thursday night was date night. For the first month of our relationship, he'd come over to my house and cook dinner so that I wouldn't miss Grey's Anatomy. He jokes now that he cooked just long enough to hook me. And hook me he did...what could be better than having the son of a restauranteur cook authentic Italian food for you so that you could watch your favorite show? I told you he was smart.

The first time I offered to cook for him, I agonized over the menu. I needed something I couldn't screw up, but would be really fulfilling. I called Grandma (the queen of good, soul-warming food), and we decided on chicken poppyseed casserole and green beans. Real green beans, cooked with bacon fat. A casserole topped with buttery Ritz crackers. For dessert, my fabulous chocolate chip cookies. He was as good as putty in my hands.

Except...I had never cooked chicken before. Because I had lived alone for five or so years, my diet was largely vegetarian. As I trimmed the extra fat and blood veins out of the chicken breasts, I threw the raw meat down the disposal. I snapped the fresh beans and threw the remains down the disposal. I was working on assembling the casserole when I heard the awful sound that will haunt my dreams for years to come...glubglubburpglubglub. 

Let me paint a picture for you.  Me, in my cute red toile apron, laboriously working to impress this man with a home cooked meal. Me, thinking I had the another 3 hours to clean my apartment and take a shower. Me, hopeful that he would think I was as great a catch as I thought he was. Me, with crushed ritz crackers and flour in my hair. Me, looking over my shoulder to see what was making that God-awful sound.

It was my sink. Both sides of my sink, filling with what I can only describe as toxic chicken soup. Grey water. Chicken fat. Green bean pieces. And lord knows what else. Holy shit. Shit, shit, shit! I tried to run the disposal. Big mistake. The toxic chicken soup started behaving like that pink goo in Ghost Busters II. It was angry - very angry. And it was threatening to overtake my home.

I called my landlord. He told me he'd come over the next day, to which I cried, "NO! Please....I'm...I'm having a dinner party!" Nice guy that he was, he rushed over.

Landlord:  What did you put down here?

Me: Chicken and green beans.

Landlord: Raw chicken?

Me: Um...yes. Was that bad?

Landlord: You are never supposed to put raw meat down a disposal. Or stringy vegetables like green beans or celery. Or egg shells. Or pasta or rice. Gums up the disposal.

Me: Seriously? Are you kidding? I didn't know, I swear! I'm so sorry!

The landlord called the plumber, and they proceeded to carry buckets of the toxic chicken soup out my back door and dump it in the backyard. Then they snaked my sink. The whole process took hours. I had one hour to clean my house, take a shower and get cute, and they were still in my kitchen which now looked like a war zone. So, I did what any rational woman would do. I opened a bottle pinot grigio, and dove in head first. I sat on the steps of my townhouse with a bottle of wine between my legs, and called my friend doing that hysterical laughing/crying thing. Then I called The Husband and asked him to be two hours late. Then I called my mom and asked her why she didn't teach me the rules of the disposal. To which she replied that she had no idea...she put everything down the disposal. Thanks, Mom. She thought the situation was hilarious.

Dinner wasn't ready until nine pm. In addition to everything else, Grandma didn't tell me the beans would take hours and hours. The Husband laughed his head off at my expense when I told him what had transpired that afternoon.

I made chicken poppyseed casserole for dinner last night, the first time since the first time. The Husband gave it a 3.75. I found that I still couldn't eat it due to post traumatic stress syndrome.