Wherein I Am Nearly Undone By Tomato Paste…

Or lack thereof.

So, earlier tonight, I’m getting ready to make pizzas, on account of it’s pizza night (as previously designated last week ) and I get my jar of home-canned sauce which requires a bit of tomato paste to thicken it and FUCK IF I DON’T HAVE ANY.

So I tear the cabinet apart looking for that tiny can. I go out to the garage and paw through the pantry hoping to catch a glimpse of that little jewel, but of course I KNOW it’s not out there. I return to the kitchen cabinet and look AGAIN…just in case that little fucker had been in hiding and decided to show finally itself, “Here I aaaaaammmm!” *singing*

But no. No paste. At this point I’m sitting on the floor in front of the open cabinet (I steal a look inside every few seconds) and I’m all WOE IS ME….HOW WILL I MAKE MY SAUCE FOR MY PIZZA?? *violins* Then I start thinking I’m going to have to drive to the GROCERY STORE! (it’s less than 3 minutes drive) and I’m SOOOO TIRED…and I don’t want to goooooo….and I was just generally flipping the fuck out. In my mind. On the floor.

So I consult the Great Oracle Google regarding a method to thicken my tomato sauce without paste, and mostly what I’m seeing is to reduce it (by simmering for a long time.) THANKS A LOT, INTERNET. I certainly couldn’t have come up with that all by myself. Of course you can reduce it. BUT I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THAT. I HAVE TO MAKE PIZZA GODDAMMIT.

Finally after about 5 mins (this nonsense really didn’t take up that much time) I said to myself: “Look, You! That sauce is not going to COOK ITSELF, just put it on the stove. And get off the floor. You look ridiculous.”

So I did that. And the sauce was fine. And the pizzas were tasty, as pizzas are. And we all came through it okay and NO ONE DIED FROM IT. I turned myself inside out over ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

It nearly drove me to pour a glass of NON ALCOHOLIC WINE.

Shit happens. Sometimes it’s rabbit turds and sometimes it’s a Great Dane dookie. But for the most part, no one is going to: die, be maimed, lose their livelihood or reputation over said crap-storm.

This is when Doris, the drinky-lady,  is lurking outside the kitchen window, because she’s a busy body and she’s getting ready to bust in and suggest that you might want to SLUG A FEW BACK to deal with the anxiety caused by [insert imagined disaster]. And of course borrow your waffle maker (which she will NOT return in good condition!!)

But we don’t have to listen to Doris. We can shoo her out the door, and simply bid ourselves GET UP OFF THE FLOOR, STUPID, and put our sauce on the stove (and not in our glasses). Whatever it is, it’s probably going to be fine.