Where there's smoke...there's burnt chicken.

Many years ago I bought a coffee mug for my sister, Regina, that had a profound statement on the side. "It's official, I've become my mother". I don't know if she appreciated it at the time, but I sure as heck got a kick out of it. Well, as my dad has always said, "The acorn doesn't fall far from the tree". So in turn, I've become my mom, as well. I guess I've known this for some time now, as my memory fails me more and more. You know the feeling, walking into a room to get something, but not having the foggiest idea of what it was...walking back out, starting over in hopes that it would trigger something to remind you. I'm not alone, am I? A couple of mornings ago, I was doing my morning breakfast ritual of two eggs and two slices of toast. Instead of peppering my eggs, I cinnamoned them. Well, I've been hearing about cinnamon's wonderful health benefits....I hope maintaining (make that restoring) brain function is one of them. Yesterday morning I had to boil a couple of chickens in preparation of making a chicken salad for a Champagne brunch we're having this morning at a neighboring villa. I brought them to a boil and turned the burner down to simmer and went about my business. An hour later I could smell something. Following my nose, I ended up in the kitchen that was filled with smoke. Instead of turning down the burner, I had turned a different burner on to simmer. So my chickens were sitting in a bone dry pot sizzling away. If only the new battery laying next to the smoke detector had replaced itself on its own. As I looked at my burned pot, I thought about all those years mom would hand us a pot to take to Dad in the garage so he could do his magic. I think it's called sandblasting.