Gee, My House Smells Terrific

I don't mean to brag. Sure, I brag all the time, and I mean it. No inadvertent bragging for me. But this time, I'm just stating a fact. My house smells terrific. I am 55 minutes into a batch of Chex Mix. It takes two hours. You can't cheat. One of my old work colleagues tried that, even though I had given her my mom's special recipe, and strict instructions. Good thing that little boy in Chinatown didn't sell her a mogwai, because Backroads would be overrun with Gremlins now. I guess, being a math teacher, it made sense to her that two hours at 250 would equate to one hour at 500. No. It doesn't.

Anyhoo...this batch is just for Hick. And me, of course. The cook gets a share. I made some earlier, for The Pony, and we had a goodly portion. But now it's in our blood. Usually, the Chex Mix is given as a gift. But now we are greedy. Hick received a bottle of Wild Turkey as a going-away gift from a work colleague. And since our stash of Chex was down to almonds and Cheerios, I offered to make a new batch. Because I assume that when Hick sits down to watch his American Pickers show, a red solo cup of Wild Turkey and Diet Coke at his elbow, he'd like a salty treat to go with it. I'd even let him use a real glass, by cracky! Hick has worked hard all his life. No need to sell him short on the beverage container.

The smell of Chex Mix roasting in the oven is delectable. It makes me think of Christmas, because that's prime Chex Mix season. Four or five batches, to give away. So every time I walk from room to room, and catch a whiff of that aroma, I immediately run through my mind the gifts that need wrapping, and the last-minute items I have yet to obtain. Except now, it's August. So I'm still ahead on the Christmas shopping.

The thing I miss most about making Chex Mix is the presence of my little buddy, The Pony. His absence makes my heart grow brokener. Oh, The Pony didn't actually help me make the Chex Mix. Let's not forget that he doesn't really care about helping people. But every 15 minutes, I'd yell, "Stirring time!" and I'd hear The Pony trotting up the basement steps to join me around the kitchen cutting block.

Stirring is a regulated process. First the big roasting pan comes off the top oven rack. Using two serving spoons, I dig down deep and lift the bottom morsels to the top, to breathe and roast, while the top morsels get a rest on the bottom. Then the roaster goes back in, and the two metal 9 x 13 cake pans get set side-by-side, so the overflow from one can flow into the other during stirring.

The Pony would stand by to pounce on the pieces that flipped out of the pan onto the cutting block. Sure they were hot. Didn't bother The Pony. Chex were his favorites, but he'd also devour the Cheerios and pretzels. This was before I caved under pressure from my sister the ex-mayor's wife, and her daughter my niece, and The Pony, and Hick...and started including Bugles. I confess that when The Pony was here, I was a bit reckless in my stirring. Today, only a couple of pretzels have fallen out.

Speaking of The Pony...he sent me a text the other day about this semester's books, and he added, "I'm eating a turkey, pepper jack, ketchup, and mustard sandwich now." I replied that I was sitting in T-Hoe in the garage, responding to his text, and the dogs were waiting for their cat kibble on the porch. Through the garage door, they looked puzzled. Due to the protective properties of the new metal garage roof (wonder if I could get myself a hat made out of that), the rest of The Pony's message was delayed.

"It's currently shaped like Oklahoma."

You can take The Pony out of Missouri, but you can't take the nerd out of The Pony.