We spent the weekend at my parents’ house celebrating my sister’s birthday, and then subsequently at the house of friends of ours, celebrating the Superbowl (and by “celebrating” I mean I glanced up periodically from the chubby face of the baby in my lap to spout random facts about some of the players – facts that, like everything else I seem to know, appear randomly in my brain and crowd out useful information – and stuff my face with chicken and guacamole) and as a result of all of the celebrating, I’m pretty sure that were I some sort of camel or hibernating bear, I would never have to eat again.  I am sadly not a camel, nor do I have any real bear-type properties, so I am probably going to have lunch in half an hour as is my custom. 

At any rate, we ate nachos with homemade salsa and guacamole and I tried cold soup for the first time ever and eventually we snuggled down into the pillowy bosom of a chocolate peanut butter cake that I had made, and that had provided me with first-hand evidence of exactly why they say you shouldn’t try a new recipe for a special occasion, because the ganache that was supposed to drip elegantly down the sides sort of oozed clumpily, and there were as well some questions as to the structural integrity of the cake itself, and all of this caused me a little bit of panic at the time, but thankfully it was quite rich and delicious, if nothing else.

It was over slices of this cake that I discovered that something I can’t do, about which I have always consoled myself with the knowledge that everyone else couldn’t do it either, is actually quite easily and capably performed by everyone else or, at very least, the members of my immediate family.  The skill at hand is in no way a useful skill at all, so luckily it likely won’t affect my quality of life in any lasting way that I can only wink one of my eyes (my left one, to be precise) and any attempts to wink the other one cause my face to contort and Mike to laugh and my self esteem to crumble into a million pieces that, if they themselves had eyes, would only be able to wink one of them, and they would be very sad shards of self worth indeed.

I had always thought that it was something that Mike COULD do but that most of the rest of the world COULDN’T do, but upon further discussion with my family, I discovered that it is the reverse that is true.  According to my sister, whose curriculum at culinary school apparently included a unit on ophthalmology and neurology, it is a problem with my brain, rather than a problem with my eye, and I have to say that when you have some sort of genetic anomaly like being short or lacking any sort of discernible chin or sneezing immediately when you go out into the sun or always needing to beat someone else to the punchline of a really obvious joke, you kind of expect to share it with your family, and to discover you are some sort of mutant entirely unto yourself is a little disheartening.