Jambalayas

Since I've spilled the proverbial beans about moving to New York City, the storm showers have already rained on my happy-go-lucky parade. I don't feel comfortable intimating details of the downpour, but I will say that the past two days I've managed to make myself positively physically sick, knotted stomach, tears stinging behind eyes, fear penetrating my internal pipework like a bundle of explosives. Craig flies to New York to meet with project officials next Tuesday, and in the meantime he is trying to soothe me with his assurances that we will be alright, no matter what. The individual who has sent me home each day with the beginnings of a sick stomach, if trying, has managed to Get To Me, and good, to cause me to weakly raise my white surrender flag in defeat. Again, I do not feel confident further expositioning the particulars, but I will say that it is imperative that I pivot on my figurative heel and face the optimistic side of myself who is much less wrought with raw emotion; the optimist must battle the raging pessimist because if not, I fear for my regular health. So, in efforts to yet again comfort my sensitive soul, I've returned to the kitchen for decent therapy. For Easter Craig had purchased 3 links of smoked beef sausage. I don't know if he imagined we were feeding half of Richmond or what, but he clearly didn't weigh the fact that I already had a 9.48 lb. ham in the refrigerator, too. Nevertheless as Easter dinner unfolded and only half of our scheduled party attendees showed, we opted not to cook the beef sausage. Yesterday, in search of better use of our sausage than to steam and eat it dipped in mustard, I dabbled with jambalaya. I found a recipe whose title suggests its steps are 1-2-3 in simplicity, which, I beg to differ: they weren't quite that easy. Yet, with time and practice I suspect I can mold the recipe into simplistic proportions. I began with cooking cubed chicken. This is something I intend to further investigate, as my instinct yields overcooking chicken to ensure safety thereby somewhat drying it out. Yesterday I experimented with larger cubes versus the typical 1/2 to 1-inchers I usually chop (still with unsatisfying results). Regardless, following that I sauteed chopped onion, green pepper and sliced beef sausage until browned, added the chicken, beef broth, chicken broth, 2 cans of French Onion soup, rounded the whole thing off with 3 teaspoons each of Creole seasoning and hot sauce, and dumped in 3 cups of uncooked rice. Reviewers of the recipe declared the rice too hard after baking the Dutch oven mixture for 40 minutes. So I brought the stuff to a boil and simmered it covered for 20 minutes before putting it in the oven, covered, for about 30. Then, as further evidence that I'm a mentally incapacitated basket case, I pulled the thing out, placed it securely on the stove, slipped off the oven mitts and grabbed, bare handed, haphazardly at the lid: need I emphasize the sizzle of singeing flesh? I yelped, I think, because screaming didn't seem an option, and Craig inquired from his post in the living room about the noise that had somehow managed to escape me before I plunged my entire hand, all singed fingers, into the ice box in the freezer. Craig came to my rescue (translation: darted into the kitchen and stood staring at me incredulously while I stood, hunched, elbow arched, hand immersed in ice). After commenting, What were you thinking? he then smiled and said, That's kind of gross, I have to put that ice in my cokes. His humor, ever sharp, did take some of the sting off the singe. Alas, he loved this recipe, gave glowing reviews as he ate it. I asked him for a rating and he said 4 stars! Maybe 4 1/2! Seize the moment that Craig offers such high rating of a recipe! I felt honored and amazed with my triumph. We will be eating jambalaya again, evidently! But as for tonight, I will continue my efforts in the kitchen and still remain in Cajun tune, this time attempting the above pictured Red Beans and Rice. I'm concentrating on not concentrating on the unknown, because my tunnel vision and fretting is going to make us two crazy individuals. I must anticipate with optimism. I must not permit the frantic fear to control me, because I run the risk of driving Craig up a wall and further worsening my physical condition. Everything is going to be alright, just as Craig insists. We're going to be alright.