A few years ago, my sister got a dog.
A cute little Maltese.
She wasn’t a puppy, she was already potty-trained, and a sweet little thing. Her owners couldn’t keep her because they lived in an apartment and she barked too much. As you 642-832 may have guessed, this cute little Maltese had a name by which it was called. My sister’s husband wanted to call the dog “Sade” after the R&B/Jazz smooth vocalizing goddess. Clever? Well maybe. If he hadn’t had 10 other cats named after the exact same diva.
Much to her husbands chagrin, she decided to keep the dog’s given name.
Which was/is Bella.
YOU may noticed I have a daughter named Bella. I told her this. She laughed and laughed and laughed.
“Uuuhhhhh.” I stumbled.
“We’ll just call the the dog ‘Bella, the dog’. And Bella will just be Bella.” she smiles.
Honestly, I thought that was the dumbest idea ever. And up until a few days ago, I have stuck to my stance on this very important issue, because you know what? EVERY TIME they call that dog, they just yell “BBBEEEEELLLLAAAA” and my kid AND the dog come running.
About a week ago,
70-480 Bella had babies. Bella the dog. Not Bella my 7 year old (see how confusing this can be? and potentially CPS alerting????)
Anyway, we just saw them for the first time this weekend.
And they were the cutest things ever.
Eyes closed. Bubbly little bellies. Smooth white fur. They looked like baby seals. (The water loving animal. Not the handsome guy married to Heidi Klum).
And Bella. The dog. Not my daughter, was right there taking care of them. Lying still while they ate, cleaning their fur when someone touched them, and guarding them from any harm that may come.
Nobody even knew that Bella was pregnant. Her belly never really got big. And when she finally had the babies, my sister was with me in Houston, and her husband called sending her into a mad panic, and she rushed home.
But Bella had it all under control. The dog, not my daughter. She ate all the stuff that comes out when you have a baby (2 to be exact) licked up any blood that there must have been, and cleaned the babies to a spit shine. Literally.
I’m so proud of that dog, that all I could do was pet her and tell her how much I love her. I think she has the perfect name. Bella. Because she’s beautiful. Such a shining example of what a strong female should be. You can call her Bella, and you can call me Bee-atch, and I won’t even be offended.
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This whole situation has turned out well for my family. But. . . .even still. . . .I don’t recommend you go naming your pet and your kids the same thing.
It’s just not natural.
Nor is it natural for a fish to have fingers. I suggest, that if you have a fish with fingers, you don’t eat them, because something might be wrong with them.
These fish, don’t really have fingers. You just chop them up into sticks that look like fingers. And then people eat them because they think, Wow, anything that is coated with a bready, crunchy, slightly cheesy coating must be magnificent. And they are right. They are magnificent.
Baked & Breaded Fish Fingers
1 1/2 pounds of Cod
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
3 eggs, beaten
1 cup grated Parmesan
1 cup bread crumbs
Olive oil, for drizzling
1. Preheat the oven to 450 F.
2. Rinse the fish, and pat dry. Cut fish into sticks (about 3 1/2 x 2 inches in length).
3. Using 3 separate medium-sized bowls, place the flour, salt, and pepper in one bowl. The eggs in another bowl, and the bread crumbs mixed with the Parmesan in the third.
4. Dredge the fish in the flour, then in the eggs, and finally into the bread crumb mixture. Place the coated fish onto a baking sheet lined with foil or a silpat. Drizzle olive generously over the fish, and bake for 20 minutes or until golden brown and crisp.