Betsy and I went out for ice cream after dinner today. As I slurped through most of my one (giant!) scoop of coconut ice cream in a waffle cone and Betsy her two (giant!) scoops of cookie dough ice cream, I had two important thoughts.
Important Thought #1: Coconut ice cream is one of the best ideas ever.
Important Thought #2: Before the project, all we talked about was food, and how healthy food can taste really good. During the project, all we talked about was the project. After the project, we realized with delight that we were talking about food again just like the good old days.
But it isn't the good old days. Things are winding down: we'll be out of Toledo in less than a week. Relief, nostalgia, and perseverance are blending together like salt, pepper, and garlic in our sauteed vegetables. We're just plugging through these last few days, trying to eat up all our perishables and ration the amount of produce we buy at the market.
We aren't even eating healthy anymore. Sure, we're eating pasta primavera and tomato soup for dinner. But we've learned that we can eat plenty on $10-$15 per person for the week, and we're still both putting $20 into our food money jar every Saturday. And we're spending the extra on ice cream and chocolate.
We went out for ice cream this evening after dinner. We went out for ice cream yesterday, too, at about 5:30 p.m. somewhere between Maumee and Perrysburg. Having ice cream before dinner is kind of like... well, it's not a good sign.
A grocery store in Toledo sells champagne grapes and plays classical music; its employees wear green polos. It also sells bulk candy, and we were always careful to have a good supply of chocolate during the project -- when you're stressed, you need chocolate. As soon as our project was done, we went back to this grocery store and came back with a nutmeg grinder and a big bag of dark-chocolate-covered peanuts. To celebrate. We finished them today while we watched most of 30 Rock Season 3 Disc 1.
I sauteed carrots for a snack this afternoon. Didn't think anything of it. I made tomato soup the other day and I was pleased but not in the least surprised that it tasted like... how do you say it? my taste buds were dancing in a completely joyful and utterly wholesome way, like swing dancing without freshmen. And it didn't matter; I just ate. Good food, really good food has become mundane here at 605 Heatherdowns (not our real apartment), and we've resorted to chocolate and ice cream. And the worst part is: there are two or three other ice cream shops we've made mental notes about all summer and we only have a week to hit them all up.
Analysis? I don't know, but this is weird.
Showing posts with label miscellaney. Show all posts
Showing posts with label miscellaney. Show all posts
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
quiz!
It's summer. Two college students are sharing an apartment in Toledo. The $12 bookends cost more than any of the furniture in the apartment. The closet door is open and hanging over it is a beach towel -- both students are too stingy to pay for the dryer. Washrags are draped over rungs of chairs and dress clothing lies flat on the floor for the same reason. The vinyl tablecloth is masking-taped under the table and the fan clicks as it spins. Two sunhats flop over a chair.
On the windowsill: an assortment of pots (origins, left to right: antique store, flea market, Mom's garage, brother's beer mug collection, thrift store; contents, left to right: dead basil, rosemary, empty because the spider plant got spilled, live basil, ivy), two tomato paste cans (one with quarters, one with pens), a pile of receipts, a glass of water, and a mason jar.
On the floor: a Mac, a PC, six pairs of shoes, one pair of socks (about four feet apart), two mugs, a pair of sunglasses, a mixing bowl, Early Christian Writings, a DVD of 30 Rock Season 2, a laundry bag, a pile of newspapers, a postcard from an indie/hippie store, a camp hat, a mirror, and a draft of a big project.
On the walls: a drawing of Ernest Hemingway, a map of Michigan, and an art print that looks like horses if you're a girl and dinosaurs if you're a guy. No curtains. A broken air-conditioning control.
On the bookshelf: a pen and a pencil, a crochet hook and an unfinished project, a few stamps, a pair of cheap binoculars, a 4x6 file box, a copy of the lease, a box of frog notecards, a coaster with a parrot on it, a pile of bulletins from several churches, a flyer for the art museum's psychadelic 60s exhibit, a long receipt listing now-overdue books from the public library, craisins, and the little thing that broke off from the air-conditioning control.
On the other bookshelf: overdue library books (lots), a frisbee, and a little cardboard box.
In the cupboard and drawer: three forks with blue paint on the tips, five knives from various thrift stores, too many spoons, a borrowed set of (matching! china!) plates/saucers/teacups, four bowls from somebody's Greek grandfather's restaurant, four boxes of South Beach Diet Strawberry Harvest cereal, one empty box/jar/food container that Betsy hasn't found yet, and too many frying pans.
What are they eating for dinner?
a) pizza
b) macaroni and cheese
c) hamburger helper
d) salmon and vegetables sauteed with spices and a hint of lemon on top of farfalle with olive oil
On the windowsill: an assortment of pots (origins, left to right: antique store, flea market, Mom's garage, brother's beer mug collection, thrift store; contents, left to right: dead basil, rosemary, empty because the spider plant got spilled, live basil, ivy), two tomato paste cans (one with quarters, one with pens), a pile of receipts, a glass of water, and a mason jar.
On the floor: a Mac, a PC, six pairs of shoes, one pair of socks (about four feet apart), two mugs, a pair of sunglasses, a mixing bowl, Early Christian Writings, a DVD of 30 Rock Season 2, a laundry bag, a pile of newspapers, a postcard from an indie/hippie store, a camp hat, a mirror, and a draft of a big project.
On the walls: a drawing of Ernest Hemingway, a map of Michigan, and an art print that looks like horses if you're a girl and dinosaurs if you're a guy. No curtains. A broken air-conditioning control.
On the bookshelf: a pen and a pencil, a crochet hook and an unfinished project, a few stamps, a pair of cheap binoculars, a 4x6 file box, a copy of the lease, a box of frog notecards, a coaster with a parrot on it, a pile of bulletins from several churches, a flyer for the art museum's psychadelic 60s exhibit, a long receipt listing now-overdue books from the public library, craisins, and the little thing that broke off from the air-conditioning control.
On the other bookshelf: overdue library books (lots), a frisbee, and a little cardboard box.
In the cupboard and drawer: three forks with blue paint on the tips, five knives from various thrift stores, too many spoons, a borrowed set of (matching! china!) plates/saucers/teacups, four bowls from somebody's Greek grandfather's restaurant, four boxes of South Beach Diet Strawberry Harvest cereal, one empty box/jar/food container that Betsy hasn't found yet, and too many frying pans.
What are they eating for dinner?
a) pizza
b) macaroni and cheese
c) hamburger helper
d) salmon and vegetables sauteed with spices and a hint of lemon on top of farfalle with olive oil
it's good to be back
We used to be really proud of our refrigerator. "Most college fridges, it's just beer and maybe an onion. But look at our fridge! We've got a pound and a half of leafy greens from the farmers market, a gallon of milk, lemons, hummus, farmers market eggs, carrots, minced garlic, homemade vegetable stock, homemade jam (credit to my mom), and serial commas!" (Betsy and I both like serial commas. We don't actually have any in our refrigerator.)
Betsy was in Hillsdale last weekend and my brother visited Saturday, so we didn't make it to Saturday's farmers market. We were desperately awaiting Wednesday so we could go to the Wednesday market. But something came up Wednesday evening and we missed the Wednesday market. Our refrigerator looked pathetic. I ate a bowl of Cookie Crisp for dinner.
When we got back from work Thursday, our big project was done. We went out and bought chocolate and a can of tomato sauce, then chopped up tomatoes and made soup. After dinner and dishes, we sat on the couch with our chocolate and watched about six episodes of 30 Rock.
It's good to be back to normal.
Betsy was in Hillsdale last weekend and my brother visited Saturday, so we didn't make it to Saturday's farmers market. We were desperately awaiting Wednesday so we could go to the Wednesday market. But something came up Wednesday evening and we missed the Wednesday market. Our refrigerator looked pathetic. I ate a bowl of Cookie Crisp for dinner.
When we got back from work Thursday, our big project was done. We went out and bought chocolate and a can of tomato sauce, then chopped up tomatoes and made soup. After dinner and dishes, we sat on the couch with our chocolate and watched about six episodes of 30 Rock.
It's good to be back to normal.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Mary is Not Stingy
Today the apartment smelled funny, so we went over to the stove to see if we'd left it on and something was burning. Nothing was burning, but I told Betsy there was a dime under one of the burners. I had seen it a couple days before when she was out. Betsy took a knife and started poking around under the burner, trying to get the dime out.
"We can put it in our farmers market fund," she said.
"We can put it in our farmers market fund," she said.
clarification
I would like to point out that Betsy's hypothesis is incorrect. It's silly to waste all this energy dichotomizing (that's a horrible word, just for you, Betsy) food. Food doesn't (and shouldn't) come with an immutable "like" or "don't like" tag.
For instance, I don't really like cake. If we're at so-and-so's birthday party, it's a lot easier just to eat cake like everyone else than it is to politely (and awkwardly!) excuse myself from the cake-eating bit. So it's probably better if I don't bother telling you I don't like cake, which means there's no reason for me to think about whether or not I like cake.
So mostly I just eat food and don't think too much about whether or not I like it.
To get to Betsy's argument:
First off, I don't have any problem with pasta primavera. Betsy and I have had conversations that go something like this:
Betsy: I bet we could sautee [list of vegetables] and put it on [specific type of pasta].
Mary: Isn't that the same thing as pasta primavera?
How that translates into not liking pasta primavera, I don't know.
Second, beans. I don't really like beans (in general). Betsy loves beans (in general). Black beans and pinto beans taste pretty much the same to me (mushy) and black beans don't start with P. I have put pinto beans in things, though, voluntarily, without prompting from Betsy. (I do like green beans, though, especially fresh/raw. You pop them in your mouth and they go crunch, crunch.)
Third, pesto. Greens and nuts aren't supposed to go together. I also don't really like almonds. I like cashews, pecans, and peanuts (two of which, by the way, begin with P), but what makes them good is the soft munch, munch in your mouth. If you grind them into pesto, they don't go munch, munch the same way. (I do like peanut butter and basil sandwiches, a desperate I'm-out-of-almost-everything college discovery I made last year.)
Fourth, I like peaches, pears, plums (probably - it's been a while since I've had plums), potatoes, pasta, pepper (as a seasoning), pecans, pancakes, and lots of other things that start with P.
I don't really like penne pasta, though (score one for Betsy), because I don't really like tube pasta much. I don't really like popcorn, either, but that's because I almost choked on a kernel once. Popcorn doesn't really taste like anything, anyway, unless you put salt, butter, or cheese on it. Then it tastes like salt, butter, or cheese. I don't really like pop, either, but Betsy doesn't get a point here because it's soda where she comes from.
I also like tomatoes.
For instance, I don't really like cake. If we're at so-and-so's birthday party, it's a lot easier just to eat cake like everyone else than it is to politely (and awkwardly!) excuse myself from the cake-eating bit. So it's probably better if I don't bother telling you I don't like cake, which means there's no reason for me to think about whether or not I like cake.
So mostly I just eat food and don't think too much about whether or not I like it.
To get to Betsy's argument:
First off, I don't have any problem with pasta primavera. Betsy and I have had conversations that go something like this:
Betsy: I bet we could sautee [list of vegetables] and put it on [specific type of pasta].
Mary: Isn't that the same thing as pasta primavera?
How that translates into not liking pasta primavera, I don't know.
Second, beans. I don't really like beans (in general). Betsy loves beans (in general). Black beans and pinto beans taste pretty much the same to me (mushy) and black beans don't start with P. I have put pinto beans in things, though, voluntarily, without prompting from Betsy. (I do like green beans, though, especially fresh/raw. You pop them in your mouth and they go crunch, crunch.)
Third, pesto. Greens and nuts aren't supposed to go together. I also don't really like almonds. I like cashews, pecans, and peanuts (two of which, by the way, begin with P), but what makes them good is the soft munch, munch in your mouth. If you grind them into pesto, they don't go munch, munch the same way. (I do like peanut butter and basil sandwiches, a desperate I'm-out-of-almost-everything college discovery I made last year.)
Fourth, I like peaches, pears, plums (probably - it's been a while since I've had plums), potatoes, pasta, pepper (as a seasoning), pecans, pancakes, and lots of other things that start with P.
I don't really like penne pasta, though (score one for Betsy), because I don't really like tube pasta much. I don't really like popcorn, either, but that's because I almost choked on a kernel once. Popcorn doesn't really taste like anything, anyway, unless you put salt, butter, or cheese on it. Then it tastes like salt, butter, or cheese. I don't really like pop, either, but Betsy doesn't get a point here because it's soda where she comes from.
I also like tomatoes.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
vegetables and gender philosophy
A heat wave had crashed into our beloved Toledo, leaving us sweat-soaked and grumpy all week – I even let Betsy turn the air conditioning on. Thursday was an especially busy day, and when we got back to the apartment, we crashed into our beloved couch and chair.
Then the rain started.
We made a dry potato soup (recipe forthcoming) and sat on the porch to eat. The food was good – warm, uncomplicated, spooned from my grandfather’s bowls, comforting. The rain cooled the air and our bare toes curled around the wet stone porch steps. We laughed and reminisced (already?) about how much we’ve grown in the past month.
We’re planning to write a cookbook, and we talked about how to market the book to everyone, not just thin, vegan, environmentalist, outdoorsy women.
“Guys have to be able to cook from this, too,” I said.
“There’s nothing unmanly about cooking,” Betsy said. Her boyfriend is a stellar cook, from what I hear.
“Right, but there’s a difference a young, respectable Italian man and a big, muscular football player who probably smokes pot.”
Just then, the door opened – we both jumped. We turned around and saw a big, muscular guy with a cutoff gray T-shirt.
“Scared you guys, huh?” he said, and (I bet his little brother adores him) smiled.
A Cottage Inn van pulled up, and we watched the guy pay for the contents of the white Styrofoam box he now held. He turned and came back toward the building as the Cottage Inn van drove away.
“Hey,” said Betsy, just before he reached the door.
He turned around.
“Do you think it’s unmasculine to cook vegetables?”
He smiled and gestured a little with his free hand. “Well, me, I don’t really like vegetables,” he said.
“No, no, but what if they were really good?” Betsy and I were both saying something along these lines. “What if they were really, really good?”
He smiled (I bet he loves his little brother) and nodded a bit, ready to go back inside.
“Do you think,” Betsy clarified, “if a guy cooks vegetables, does that make him less manly? If they were really good vegetables, I mean. Is that beyond gender?”
Neither of us is really sure what he said after that. He mumbled something maybe, still smiling (I bet his little brother is really annoying) and went inside to enjoy his Styrofoam-box dinner from Cottage Inn.
I looked at Betsy. “Beyond gender”?
Score one for the Hillsdale Bubble.
Then the rain started.
We made a dry potato soup (recipe forthcoming) and sat on the porch to eat. The food was good – warm, uncomplicated, spooned from my grandfather’s bowls, comforting. The rain cooled the air and our bare toes curled around the wet stone porch steps. We laughed and reminisced (already?) about how much we’ve grown in the past month.
We’re planning to write a cookbook, and we talked about how to market the book to everyone, not just thin, vegan, environmentalist, outdoorsy women.
“Guys have to be able to cook from this, too,” I said.
“There’s nothing unmanly about cooking,” Betsy said. Her boyfriend is a stellar cook, from what I hear.
“Right, but there’s a difference a young, respectable Italian man and a big, muscular football player who probably smokes pot.”
Just then, the door opened – we both jumped. We turned around and saw a big, muscular guy with a cutoff gray T-shirt.
“Scared you guys, huh?” he said, and (I bet his little brother adores him) smiled.
A Cottage Inn van pulled up, and we watched the guy pay for the contents of the white Styrofoam box he now held. He turned and came back toward the building as the Cottage Inn van drove away.
“Hey,” said Betsy, just before he reached the door.
He turned around.
“Do you think it’s unmasculine to cook vegetables?”
He smiled and gestured a little with his free hand. “Well, me, I don’t really like vegetables,” he said.
“No, no, but what if they were really good?” Betsy and I were both saying something along these lines. “What if they were really, really good?”
He smiled (I bet he loves his little brother) and nodded a bit, ready to go back inside.
“Do you think,” Betsy clarified, “if a guy cooks vegetables, does that make him less manly? If they were really good vegetables, I mean. Is that beyond gender?”
Neither of us is really sure what he said after that. He mumbled something maybe, still smiling (I bet his little brother is really annoying) and went inside to enjoy his Styrofoam-box dinner from Cottage Inn.
I looked at Betsy. “Beyond gender”?
Score one for the Hillsdale Bubble.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Magical Pasta Salad
Mary and I have picked up this sort of bad habit: Late at night when we’re bored, when reading another chapter of Return of the King seems impossible and watching another episode of 30 Rock feels pathetic, we make food.
Sometimes this food is weird, (like the salty chocolate chip cookies we made –– whatever, we still ate nine of them in two hours), sometimes it is bad (greasy homemade graham cracker crust with melted chocolate and peanut butter spread on it, stuck in the freezer; it may be every 5-year-old’s dream come true, but it was definitely not delicious, and vaguely depressing), and every once in a while, it is awesome.
Like last night.
We’d had this bowl of rigatoni taking up space in the fridge for a while and kept forgetting to eat it. So at about 10:30 p.m. we decided to make pasta salad.
I’ve never done that before, and I don’t think Mary has either. But about $0.30 of pasta was on the line, so we didn’t worry too much about planning ahead of time or anything. This is what we did:
1. Added about a tablespoon of olive oil and maybe 2 teaspoons of apple cider vinegar to a bowl of rigatoni.
2. Dumped in everything else in our fridge and pantry.
Well, not exactly. But here’s a list of things we added without any special rhyme or reason:
-capers
-chopped sun-dried tomatoes
-sprouts
-green onions
-spinach
-basil
-sage
-garlic
-salt
-plenty of black pepper
-a little leftover Caesar salad dressing
-celery
And you know what? After about 30 seconds of work, it tasted awesome. I kid you not, this stuff is absolutely delicious.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
weekend away
On a normal workday, Betsy and I wake up in the same room (about 45 minutes apart), eat breakfast mostly together, drive to work together, make phone calls from desks separated by a small filing cabinet, eat lunch together, make more phone calls from desks separated by a small filing cabinet, drive back to the apartment together, cook dinner together, eat dinner together, do dishes together, and by that time it's dark and we've locked our door for the night.
So far, we haven't had any major fights. In fact, we haven't really had any minor fights. We had something like this once:
Betsy: Do you like guacamole?
Mary: Um...no.
Betsy: Have you tried guacamole?
Mary: Um...
Betsy: You haven't even tried guacamole! How can you say you don't like it?
Mary: Um...maybe I have tried it. Is it green? Do people put it on crackers? I think I did, and I think I remember not liking it.
[next day, Betsy orders guacamole at a restaurant.]
Betsy: Mary, try this.
Mary: (dips tortilla chip in guacamole and eats) I guess it tastes okay, but it feels really slimy.
Betsy: Well, you have to not think about snot while you're eating it.
And another one like this:
Betsy: Do you like hummus?
Mary: No.
Betsy: (gives Mary a knowing look) Have you tried hummus?
Mary: Yes.
Betsy: And you're sure you don't like it?
Mary: Yes.
But overall, we're getting along really well, especially considering we're rarely more than 20 feet away from each other. So when I found out I was going home for a family event this weekend, I automatically asked Betsy if she'd like to come along. It hadn't really occurred to me that we could be in separate places.
Betsy suggested that a friend pick her up and take her to Hillsdale for the weekend, and that's what she ended up doing. So I drove home alone.
It was up to my sister and me to make dinner Saturday night. Armed with the confidence I'd gained spending three weeks cooking with Betsy, I scanned the shelves of the refrigerator, looking for food I knew how to cook.
My confidence went kerplunk when I realized we had no broccoli. And we were out of carrots. And basically nothing to make a main course out of except meat, and I didn't learn anything from Betsy about cooking meat.
Our sandwiches that night (lunch meat, sliced cheese and raw tomato) were a testament to Betsy's cooking skillz.
So far, we haven't had any major fights. In fact, we haven't really had any minor fights. We had something like this once:
Betsy: Do you like guacamole?
Mary: Um...no.
Betsy: Have you tried guacamole?
Mary: Um...
Betsy: You haven't even tried guacamole! How can you say you don't like it?
Mary: Um...maybe I have tried it. Is it green? Do people put it on crackers? I think I did, and I think I remember not liking it.
[next day, Betsy orders guacamole at a restaurant.]
Betsy: Mary, try this.
Mary: (dips tortilla chip in guacamole and eats) I guess it tastes okay, but it feels really slimy.
Betsy: Well, you have to not think about snot while you're eating it.
And another one like this:
Betsy: Do you like hummus?
Mary: No.
Betsy: (gives Mary a knowing look) Have you tried hummus?
Mary: Yes.
Betsy: And you're sure you don't like it?
Mary: Yes.
But overall, we're getting along really well, especially considering we're rarely more than 20 feet away from each other. So when I found out I was going home for a family event this weekend, I automatically asked Betsy if she'd like to come along. It hadn't really occurred to me that we could be in separate places.
Betsy suggested that a friend pick her up and take her to Hillsdale for the weekend, and that's what she ended up doing. So I drove home alone.
It was up to my sister and me to make dinner Saturday night. Armed with the confidence I'd gained spending three weeks cooking with Betsy, I scanned the shelves of the refrigerator, looking for food I knew how to cook.
My confidence went kerplunk when I realized we had no broccoli. And we were out of carrots. And basically nothing to make a main course out of except meat, and I didn't learn anything from Betsy about cooking meat.
Our sandwiches that night (lunch meat, sliced cheese and raw tomato) were a testament to Betsy's cooking skillz.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
there will be no unrequited blog promotion!
We've already told the story about a certain 18-to-25-year-old coming over for dinner.
He told his readers to read our blog. So we'll do the same: to all of our readers -- yes, both of you -- go read his blog over at FOX Toledo.
Have a nice day.
He told his readers to read our blog. So we'll do the same: to all of our readers -- yes, both of you -- go read his blog over at FOX Toledo.
Have a nice day.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
the great debate: social life, produce, or Karate Kid sequel?
Betsy and I were in a pickle of a sort we'd never dealt with before.
We'd discovered someone in the 18-to-25-year-old range and we wanted to have said 18-to-25-year-old over for dinner. But we were booked for two weekends in a row, and we were booked every day during the week, too -- except for Wednesday. But our refrigerator (of which we've become increasingly proud) was completely empty of tomatoes and carrots, and the Farmers Market was only open on Wednesdays.
Betsy summed up our dilemma rather neatly:
"Social life?" she asked, "or produce?"
I polled some friends from school. One said produce. One said social life. They were no help at all.
Fortunately, Betsy's father rescued us by taking Betsy to the grocery store Monday night. She came back with tomatoes and carrots. We'd miss the Farmers Market (one of our favorite places in Toledo), but we could have the 18-to-25-year-old over for Wednesday dinner.
We thought things were going to be fine, but our situation took a turn for the worse on Wednesday afternoon. I discovered that we could get free tickets to see Karate Kid II that night.
I wasn't sure how to handle this one.
I politely declined. "Sorry, we've already got plans for tonight," I said, then blinked and scrunched up my eyebrows a little bit. Had I really just said that? We'd just spent Saturday afternoon bumming around downtown and Saturday night bumming around the apartment. We couldn't make room in our schedule for a free movie (even if it was Karate Kid II)? Weird.
The 18-to-25-year-old came over, and we all ate dinner, brownies, and sprouts. Now I can't focus on my work because my cheeks hurt from laughing so much.
I guess I didn't realize those muscles were out of shape.
We'd discovered someone in the 18-to-25-year-old range and we wanted to have said 18-to-25-year-old over for dinner. But we were booked for two weekends in a row, and we were booked every day during the week, too -- except for Wednesday. But our refrigerator (of which we've become increasingly proud) was completely empty of tomatoes and carrots, and the Farmers Market was only open on Wednesdays.
Betsy summed up our dilemma rather neatly:
"Social life?" she asked, "or produce?"
I polled some friends from school. One said produce. One said social life. They were no help at all.
Fortunately, Betsy's father rescued us by taking Betsy to the grocery store Monday night. She came back with tomatoes and carrots. We'd miss the Farmers Market (one of our favorite places in Toledo), but we could have the 18-to-25-year-old over for Wednesday dinner.
We thought things were going to be fine, but our situation took a turn for the worse on Wednesday afternoon. I discovered that we could get free tickets to see Karate Kid II that night.
I wasn't sure how to handle this one.
I politely declined. "Sorry, we've already got plans for tonight," I said, then blinked and scrunched up my eyebrows a little bit. Had I really just said that? We'd just spent Saturday afternoon bumming around downtown and Saturday night bumming around the apartment. We couldn't make room in our schedule for a free movie (even if it was Karate Kid II)? Weird.
The 18-to-25-year-old came over, and we all ate dinner, brownies, and sprouts. Now I can't focus on my work because my cheeks hurt from laughing so much.
I guess I didn't realize those muscles were out of shape.
Monday, May 31, 2010
felix culpa
bad idea: leaving a thyme plant in the sunny part of your car if you're going to be away for five hours in the afternoon.
good idea: harvesting dried thyme leaves from a dead thyme plant.
good idea: harvesting dried thyme leaves from a dead thyme plant.
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