I’d like to conduct an informal poll:
Do you or do you not break into song when adding the parsley, sage, rosemary, and/or thyme to any culinary dish?
Why do I ask? Because every time my husband decides to make an Italian dish, he offers up a little “Ode to Simon and Garfunkel.”
Pic from KateMonkey on Flickr.
Mike and I just hit a low point in our culinary careers when we both decided that we were too lazy to run to the store (which admittedly is across the street) to buy more spaghetti or mostaccioli and opted instead to just break up the lasagna noodles we happened to have into more manageable bits.
Our meal did not look like this. Thanks to jeffreyw on Flickr for making us look bad.
I remember being roused last night into that half-asleep, half-awake daze to my husband yelping beside me.
“Why’d you pinch me?” he hollered.
I responded: “You were irritating me in my dream.”
The other day, Mike asked me to fix the holes in his jeans.
From Richard Masoner / Cyclelicious on Flickr.
I told him that despite my recent crafty endeavors (I made a wreath, a table runner, and I’m about to start in on some curtains), I didn’t know how to do that.
“But I thought you were getting domesticated,” he said.
That was the end of that conversation.
Mike and I are heading over to some friends’ house for dinner.
“How do we transport the spinach artichoke dip so we don’t look tacky?” Mike asked.
“Babe, we’re going to look tacky. It’s kind of our MO,” I said, remembering that we made the dip two days ago and that the wine we planned to bring costs about $4 a bottle.
“Well, should I just bring it over like it is? Frozen in a yogurt container? Or should I microwave it and put it in our mini-Crockpot?”
Needless to say, we’re nuking it and then toting it over.
I biked past a preschool the other day during recess and was amazed at how much squealing and squeaking I heard.
It’s crazy how much the future of America sounds like a gopher farm.