My husband and I really don’t bicker much. I mean, sure, there’s the whole “tone” thing which often gets misheard in a “you’re being snippy” or “no, you’re being snippy” or “well, you were snippy first” sort of way, but mostly, mostly there’s been just one argument of late and it goes exactly like this:
October, 2006 Archive
Oh, my lovely bretzels! What happened to you? When we went to bed last night, you were the absolute height of bretzel perfection: round, dark, shiny, speckled with tiny cubes of sea salt and popping out from your plus signs, as if your goodness inside was just too much for you, also, to bear. This morning, you are damp, your exterior has shrunk a little and your salt particles wish to slide off your crust. I know it rained cats, dogs and elephants last night but not in here, not in your zip-lock bag!
You know, this really started out far more innocently than it now may seem. And yes, I know you are snickering, because how on earth can one innocently go about a process than concludes with spooning into a deep casserole dish crusted with cheese and pasta in a two to one ratio? Well, you’re me, that’s how; and you needed to use up some milk.
See, now I’m a girl who keeps my promises, eh? About everything but picking up the dry-cleaning, at least. As I expected, these pumpkin muffins were a cinch, which is good, because I expect that from my muffins. They should max out at two bowls for prep, you should be able to mix them by hand and there shouldn’t be any excessively difficult steps. It’s not rocket science.
After a week that felt nothing short of chaotic and angsty, this weekend was just what the over-tangled brain ordered. Saturday, we headed to the surprisingly-empty and orchre-tinted foliage deprived Brooklyn Botanic Garden for a few hours. Still, wandering around snapping up this and that to contribute my quota of flower pictures to the internet was turned out to be exactly the antidote my week called for.
About five years ago, my best friend decided to host Christmas Eve dinner at her new house, and I came over to help for what seemed like a lovely afternoon, but turned out to be, well, you know how cooking isn’t always fun when you’re all stressed out? We made this mushroom galette and I remember thinking at the time it was one of the most elaborate things I’d ever made, but what I really meant was “pain in the ass.” It has all of these, well, steps, directions you’re not sure are utterly necessary or bettering of the end-product but you follow them because you don’t want to find out the other way that you should have just RTFM-ed.
High on my list of things I’ve always wanted to do but finances, scheduling or partner interest always got in the way was going to some small town for a rustic fall weekend, even though it risked cementing my unconditionally yuppie status. I mentioned this to my delightful husband a month ago, in a “maybe we could pull it off this year” kind of way and a day later, he had the whole thing booked. Cue: swoon.