This past weekend was Easter weekend, and if you celebrate it, I hope everyone had a very blessed Easter celebration. In our house, it was the first time The Fiance and I celebrated together (last year I traveled home to be with my parents because it was my mother’s birthday).
So this year, I dragged The Fiance kicking and screaming to Catholic mass with me. Okay, he came willingly of his own accord. He has this whole “master plan” on how to get an in with the church for our pre-Cana classes, but more on that later…
After mass, though, I made a veritable Easter Feast for the two of us for dinner. Ham (which we’ll be eating forever), baked squash, mashed potatoes, and I even pulled the green bean casserole out of the freezer. Remember the green bean casserole? THE green bean casserole?
It’s been sitting in the freezer for the past four months, so I decided it was time to break it out and tempt fate. After all, I wasn’t ever able to find the fingernail when I searched through the casserole. For all I knew, the darn thing could have fallen off anywhere.
So, we tentatively dug in to the casserole and actively dug in to all the rest of the food. Let me just say, I’m a pretty good cook. Everything was delicious, even the tainted green bean casserole. We made a deal that whomever found the nail would get to choose what we had for breakfast on Saturday.
Alas, we made it all the way through two helpings of green bean casserole at dinner and neither of us found the nail. As I was scooping the casserole into a storage container, I kept my eyes peeled, just in case. When I again didn’t find anything, I just assumed that the nail must have fallen off some place else.
But last night, while chowing down on some delicious left overs, The Fiance looks at me and goes, “I guess I get to choose where we go for breakfast on Saturday.” And there, on his fork, was that nerve-wracking nail that I spent a sleepless night agonizing over. That abominable acrylic pain in my butt. That treacherous talon digging under my skin. That spiteful spur… Anyway, you get the picture. There it was.
He may never eat my cooking again, but at least he finished his dinner last night. I just thank God that we didn’t bring that casserole to Thanksgiving dinner.