A Bad Morning

Let me tell you, waking up to your mother screaming isn't the way to a cheery morning. It all started yesterday when we were at the supermarket. The Boy wanted churros. Churros are wonderfully delightful fried sticks of dough covered with sugar, and sometimes cinnamon. He wanted to buy some from the freezer section and his mother-- that would be me-- being a food snob said there was no way that she was buying churros from the freezer section. It had to be fresh.

Me and my big fat mouth. Will I never learn? So my mother decided that she wanted to make the churros for my son. The last time I'd had any was when I was a child and my friend's Cuban abuela (grandmother) made them for us. I didn't remember the recipe since it had been at least 20 years since I'd had them. I looked up the recipe online.

Fast forward to this morning and the waking up to screaming. I, of course, jump out of bed and run to the kitchen. The dough had exploded, shooting up a wall of oil. Luckily, it only got her hands. Mostly her left and only a little on the right. Luckily, she slammed down a lid on the pot and turned off the fire. Stubbornly, she insisted she didn't need to go to the hospital. I did what little first aid I knew, double checked that through google, and warned her that if she didn't look better within a half hour that I would drag her, kicking and screaming, to the hospital.

I saw some blistering. Her pinky didn't look too hot. She knew she couldn't out-stubborn me and relented. I had my father take her and told him that if he dropped her off and left-- he can't deal with hospitals, he says-- I'd have his head on a platter. And I'm waiting. Still. I hate waiting.