Dorky Dad and the Fondue of Death

This weekend we went to a giant fondue party. I'd never been to one before, but apparently it involves a bunch of people getting together and eating small portions of food dipped in sauces. And then everybody hits McDonald's on their way home because there's no way you can get enough small pieces of bread to make a full meal.

Truthfully, it was a lot of fun, even with the presence of about 5 million distractions in the form of loud, rambunctious school-aged children and at least one baby (mine). But amidst the whining and crying I found myself at the fondue table, where I took my handy fondue fork and began to peruse the options.

(By the way, two days later I still find myself shocked -- SHOCKED -- that The Boy not once attempted to convert his fondue fork into a weapon in the midst of the crowded living room. I've decided that he was feeling particularly generous that day, and decided to spare his father from shouting his boilerplate "Hey! That [INSERT RANDOM OBJECT HERE] is not a [INSERT RANDOM WEAPON HERE]!!!")

I found plenty of options -- chocolate and caramel for my sweet tooth; cheese for my cheese tooth; chips for my salt tooth; crackers for my cracker tooth; apples, bananas, strawberries and pineapple for my fruit tooth and bread for my bread tooth. I also came across some sort of meat, probably chicken, soaked in an Asian sauce, probably teriyaki. I took some of that.

Everything seemed good. The meat was OK, though it seemed a bit funny, so I soaked it in the pile of cheese I took for myself and moved on to the next item on my plate.

Later, as I talked with another of my fellow party goers, I noticed about a dozen fondue forks in one boiling pot, next to the teriyaki-soaking chicken.

"What's that?" I asked, pointing to the forks.

"Oh," the woman said, "you take a fork, stick it in this raw chicken here" -- and she pointed to the aforementioned teriyaki chicken -- "and then cook it in this oil. I'm not sure these are done."

Raw chicken? That chicken was supposed to be COOKED? I just ate RAW CHICKEN?!??

I just smiled and nodded in an effort to hide the fact that I suddenly felt like the pilot on the movie Airplane when he overheard the doctor's descriptions of the symptoms people feel after eating the fish dinner -- as he looked down upon his plate of fish bones.

"I'm totally doomed," I thought. A lifetime of living near and with moms has taught me that eating raw chicken is like skydiving without a parachute. I'll probably get salmonella, or I'll just gradually turn into one giant chicken.

I haven't started clucking yet. And I keep looking at myself to see if I've sprouted feathers. But if you check this blog in a day or two to find indecipherable chicken scratch -- more so than usual -- you'll know why.

See y'all -- CLUCK! -- later.