A Day in the Life of Harvard Nathaniel

Laura (In the kitchen): "Harvey's about to throw up."

Ian (In the hall): "I can hear him."

Laura: "Ewww. He barfed. They're all crowded around it."

Ian: "It's a feeding frenzy."

It's like Christmas.

Laura: "THEY'RE ALL INHALING HIS THROW UP. COME LOOK AT THIS."

Ian: "Gross. No."

Laura: "SERIOUSLY. THIS IS SO DISGUSTING. LOOK."

Ian: "It'll ruin my appetite."

Laura: "SPOTTSWOOD AND WINNIE ATE ALL OF IT."

Ian: "It's the breakfast of champions."

Laura: "HARVEY'S EATING MORE CAT FOOD. HE'S ALREADY HUNGRY AGAIN."

Ian: "I'll bet he is."

Afterwards: Shame. Disgust. Internal loathing.

Man, did you see that!? That was totally gross!

Spottswood's Close-Up

Spottswood recently informed me that he's been feeling left-out. As one of our more sensitive little buddies, I take pains to listen to him and to acknowledge his feelings.

He's had a rough couple of months. First, Daddy had an affair with a kitten named Solo. Fortunately, Solo grew out of his adorable kitten stage and the affair ended. But not before traumatizing poor Spottswood.

Luckily, Ian and Spottswood have patched up their relationship.

Then we got chickens. I don't know if you've noticed, but every blog post for the past month has concerned the baby chicks.

Winnie and Harvey don't really care. Winnie is extremely affable, wriggling with excitement at something as simple as going to the bathroom or walking down the hall.

And Harvey sleeps so much that he's only dimly aware that he even has a mommy and daddy.

But Spottswood feels jealous over the chicks. I've explained to him that babies need lots of extra attention. Plus, there's about a forty percent chance we're going to eat the chicks anyways.

Nevertheless, Spottswood has been feeling some intense sibling rivalry. To make it up to him, I promised Spottswood I would snap some modeling shots of him and display them on the blog.

Spottswood was ecstatic. He watches America's Next Top Model every week and takes note of the fashion photographers' modeling advice. Tyra Banks is kind of his hero.

Here's our fabulous boy smiling with his eyes:

Fat Larry's Barbeque

My brother writes a blog in which he reviews barbeque and soul food restaurants in the city: http://memphisque.blogspot.com/

On Monday night both Ian and I felt stressed from work, so I insisted we eat barbeque. Because that's what stressed out people should do, apparently.

Here's my own barbecue review (and obviously you should check out my brother's blog for real reviews).

Fat Larry's is a visually terrifying place: very dark and creeping with portraits of Gothic pigs and stuffed boar heads. Some would call it "kitschy." It has all the marks of an authentic barbeque place:

Ian: "I'm scared."

Laura: "Me too."

I'm allergic to pork and eating it makes me violently ill. I dearly miss pulled pork sandwiches, so I try to replicate the barbeque experience by ordering barbeque chicken.

Usually this merely serves to anger me since pulled pork tastes fifty million times better than chicken. Chicken is the blandest, driest, weakest meat in the world. Chicken is sissy food.

Ian ordered fried chicken tenders with french fries. I wouldn't consider that sissy food. Those chicken tenders had "hypertension" written all over them, so you could argue it took some guts to eat them.

As for my food, our waitress plunked down a platter with a small hen basted in a radioactive red sauce. Fat Larry doesn't "do" sissy food. Fat Larry ensures his baked chicken is a manly feast fit for a man.

I didn't like the smell of the radioactive red sauce, let alone the taste. It tasted, well, manly. Ian sniffed the chicken and proclaimed it an ordinary-smelling chicken.

The barbeque beans were delightful. They reminded me of home... Of a time past... Of better days... Then I realized the beans included chunks of pulled pork. I hadn't eaten that magical food in years.

I slurped the beans down, realizing I would suffer later. The slaw seemed good, probably because it was the only foodstuff that wouldn't destroy me.

By the end of the meal, I still had an entire chicken sitting on my plate. I got a to-go box, but here's something else: our refrigerator is currently broken. And when I say currently, I mean permanently.

Laura: "We can't preserve this chicken. I should just throw it away."

Ian: "No, let's take it. I'll eat it in a dark room when you leave to walk the dog. So I can be alone with my shame."

Laura: "No! I won't let you! You already ate four deep-fried chicken tenders and a basket of fries! You'll hurt yourself!"

Ian: "It's for the greater good."

Ian can't stand to waste food. I knew it would be tough to argue him down.

Upon arriving home, I went to the bedroom for a second and then returned to this gruesome sight:

Laura: "Ian! No! It's not worth it! SAVE YOURSELF."

Ian: "You should have thought of this before you dragged us to a place called Fat Larry's."

Ian continued to rip through the chicken, a man determined to press through the pain.

Laura: "Please stop! I CAN'T WATCH ANYMORE."

After Ian ravaged the chicken, he staggered out to the barn, drunk on excessive poultry. He fed our chicks their dinner, with the smell of chicken still on his hands, to "let them know who's boss."

Then he collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.

Meanwhile I walked the dog, fighting stomach pains and acid reflux caused by the pulled pork I'd consumed.

Ultimately, our night at Fat Larry's left us feeling ashamed and weirdly drunk. I'm not sure I can recommend this restaurant. I mean, the food is good, but the place itself made us mildly insane.

I suppose it would make for a good restaurant if you were craving a night of feeling disturbed and unsettled. It was like a watching a scary movie, except we were in it.

Tread carefully at Fat Larry's, my darlings.

Our Bouncing Baby Boy

We think we've figured out the sex of the chicks. The suspense grew too great, so we decided to Google male and female chicken traits.

After entering the dubious search words, "sexing chicks" (and dreading the possible obscene porn sites that might pop up) we found a helpful YouTube video.

After watching it, we took a close look at our chicks and discovered we have four girls and one boy.

John Proctor is indeed a John Proctor. These days he spends less time chewing on his sisters and more time protecting them.

He has spurs on his feet and an enormous head. He's fearless and stares at us intently when we hold him.

Our girls shake nervously when held and try to flap away. But John Proctor has a great deal of presence and a decidedly brash nature.

Ian and I have already become attached to him, and we're hoping he keeps the crowing to a minimum since neither of us wants to toss him in the stew pot.

In our neighborhood, the rules about owning a rooster are a bit grey. If he's too noisy, we know we'll have to get rid of him. Ian's trying to remain optimistic.

Ian: "I don't think we'll have have a problem keeping John. Those horrible yippy dogs that live behind us are way more annoying than a rooster."

I nod and put on a brave face, but privately I think, "Every dog is more annoying than a rooster to Ian."

I have to say, I've never heard the horrible yippy dogs crowing at 4:00am. John has remained silent on the matter, which I'm taking as a good sign.

The internet tells me that roosters crow before the age of four months, so we'll soon learn how vocal our son is. We're hoping our boy has inherited our shy and quiet nature.

But then, he's John Proctor. Every day he looks more like a dinosaur. A bold, brazen dinosaur.

Stay tuned to see whether we eat John Proctor casserole or lavish love (and mercy) on our darling pet.