I was in charge of the Chicken Kiev. The pre-formed, frozen kind; breaded and filled with yellow liquid that by all accounts looks buttery, but tastes strangely synthetic. Chris calls them chicken Twinkies. I was too tired to contemplate the amount of energy it would take to make mashed potatoes, so Chris was in charge of those.

I plunked the solid chunks of processed goodness down in the glass baking dish and walked away.

Chris busied himself with the chopping of the last of the potatoes, having to toss one in the trash when he discovered that part of it had liquified in the bag.

I decided at the last minute to put some frozen corn on a burner, because, well, when else would we eat frozen corn? Why do we even have it in the freezer? What purpose does it serve? But it was a good thing I did, because Chris happily finished the potatoes, announced that he may have put too much milk in them, and left the area.

I went over to investigate, and by checking out their texture, was able to discern that they wouldn't be great, but they wouldn't be too wierd. I stuck my finger in, hoping to be able to make a quick judgement about the possible addition of garlic or butter, but before I even put it in my mouth, I knew something was wrong.

They smelled. Bad.

I sort of hunkered down over the bowl and sniffed. The milk was sour. Not just slightly.

"Chris!" I yelled. "You used spoiled milk in the potatoes!"

He came running and looked at them in disbelief.

"Really?" He took a small bite. "Ooh. You're right."

"Chris, didn't you have cereal earlier today?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't notice the milk was bad then?"

"I guess not. I mean, I thought something was strange, but, I just didn't realize."

We flushed the potatoes and had frozen corn with our chicken Twinkies.

After dinner, Chris gathered all his clean clothes from the laundry area and dumped them on our bed for an enormous version of "The Matching Game."

I love this game, where you spread out all your clothes and separated them into piles, match socks, fold pants and t-shirts. It gives the a warm fuzzy feeling.

After we were left with a large number of orphaned socks, Chris went nuts, inspecting every article of clothing he owned and discarding an entire two garbage bags of socks without mates, t-shirts the color of rust or frayed to a translucent texture, pants covered in ink and paint, and shirts with less than 3 buttons.

It felt great.