This week we bought a dozen boneless chicken breasts at a great price at Super Store.  I packaged them up in twosomes and vacuum packed and froze all but two.

So this morning I said to the Bride, why don’t I slice the breasts up into narrow slices and grill to have on a salad.  We have had this before.  Great idea…

I went for my afternoon nap (which seldom includes sleeping) and am reading a Peter James book about a detective in Brighton England.  A good series.

Anyway there is a dead, rich woman that was murdered and Inspector Grace is attending the autopsy.  Lots of smells but the worst comes when they cut the victim’s stomach open to see what was her last meal.  The medical pathologist says… well the last meal she had was Chicken Korma.  Grace and his assistant look at each other and agree that Chicken Korma is one of their favorite dishes  (remember this is in England where Indian meals rule because truly English dishes are boring)

So I skip my nap and arise and announce to Pat (who is of course on the computer doing whatever she does) that there is a change of plans and we are having Chicken Korma for dinner.

I have ordered this at Indian restaurants, but never made it

I went on the internet for the most exotic recipe that turns out required 3 hours of preparation and simmering with dozens of ingredients.     Picked up some fresh Naan and…… it was wonderful.

Of course, as you read this, Pat is washing the dozen dishes and pans I used to prepare the meal.  And we have leftovers.

By the way… I never told Pat that the inspiration for this meal came from the stomach contents from the autopsy of a dead murdered red headed woman in a novel.  Probably a good call before we ate the meal.

I know we have all been following the sad story about the Bronco team in Saskatchewan.

On the way back from the store this evening the Tom Cochrane song Big League came on the radio.  I have to admit my eyes welled up.  All those families that must live this song.

Some of you may remember a blog I published a few years ago about how I abuse my left hand (not abuse as the evil Russian internet trolls look for) but how I favour my right over my left.

You can search for the blog about 2 years ago, but here is the summary.

If my hands were children, I obviously favour the right over the left.  If I need to drill a tiny hole in a piece of wood, the high speed drill is in my favoured hand while the poor little left holds the tiny fragment, knowing full well that the drill may go through and drill into a finger.  If I am carving with an Exacto blade, the right holds the blade and the poor little left is holding the fragment, again, knowing full well, that the blade may eventually slip and cut.  And if there is ever a chance that I have to test if an electrical joint is live, poor lefty gets the job.

As I look at my hands right now, there are far more scars and stitches on the left.

I did not actually intend this to happen.  Like an older brother, the right hand knows he can inflict punishment on the younger brother Lefty, and the master (that would be me) would just look on and say, well, the job has to be done.  You have to read the earlier blog to have a list of all the abuses.

That is pretty much what my blog from 2 years ago said, and to be truthful, I have not tried to correct that.  Let’s face it, the left hand child is not as talented as the golden right hand.

But things are changing.  I have had arthritis for years.  Never as bad as my mother, but it is what it is.

My left hand is now experiencing more arthritic pain.  I have a problem closing the thumb on the palm.  Voltaren cream helps, but I suspect this is a lifetime payback for the abuse.  Not to mention  the issues with holding those little pieces in the model I am building.  And an issue with my golf swing.

The good news is that the left hand has no problem as I type this blog.  I suspect that it will eventually figure out how to get back at me, the master, but right now, I think he just hates his other brother, the right hand.

We are watching the Jays play the Orioles in Baltimore.  It is a typical April ball game like the ones we used to watch in early spring in the old days back in Toronto.

The temperature at the start of the game is 7 C (45 F).  You look at the fans in the stands and there are barely enough people to pay for the salary of the starting pitcher.

I can understand because it is cold and the seats in Baltimore are metal.  Donaldson just hit a grand slam in the top of the ninth and when the Orioles come up at the bottom they will be lucky if the team wives are still in the stands.

However… I remember going to Jay games in the old Exhibition stadium in the eighties.  I was in sales and at 4 in the afternoon on a cold April weekday I would be given 4 of the company tickets and told to ask my reps to find customers for that night’s game.  We never found customers, but I could always find a couple of my guys or office people who said “I’ll go”.  We would sit in the stands and shiver (those days I was wearing a suit to work and had at best an overcoat), but we loved the game.

Games in Toronto in April could be cold.  Unless the Jays were ahead I , like the Baltimore fans tonight, would bail out and go home.  It was a long drive north to Markham.

When the Sky Dome came along the game changed.

So watching the game tonight did take me back.

As many of my fans would remember, I spend the summer trapping wascally wabbits in the back yard.  The varmints eat all the flowers that I plant.

When we first moved into the neighborhood they were never an issue.  But as the years passed, many of the parents that gave cute little rabbits to their kids only to realize they turn into huge beasts, would convince the kids that the best thing to do was to release them on a golf course where they would live happily ever after.  This is actually true because letters in the local paper advised parents to do this.

Of course rabbits do not do well on the 1/4 inch high grass on the greens and the 1/2 inch high grass on the fairways so they went after the yards.  Mild winters and a breeding period of 6 weeks meant we became infested.  As we sat for supper last summer, it was not unusual to see 3 – 4 rabbits in the back yard (and the resultant loss of annual flowers).

So I started trapping them in a cage.  Pat would never let me wring their necks or donate them to the couples that we know that eat rabbit, so I had to drive them up the island to release them in someone else’s property.  Granted I always thought I would release them in a field that gave the opportunity for the glorious American Eagles that we enjoy seeing flying around, to go feed (at least that was my justification).

This spring there is a virus that is killing the rabbits on the island.  It happens when there is an over abundance of any species.  I am cheering it on.

But here is the ironic part.  This morning I found a Chocolate Easter bunny beside my computer.  No idea where it came from.  Pat, who loves these little varmints, did not get anything.

Go figure!!!