Someone’s in the Kitchen with Ravelled
Yesterday I came back from the YMCA feeling all ambitious and frugal and of a mind to cook. So I took the last of the generic cocktail vegetable juice and a bit of cooking sherry and tried the recipe on the back of the Arborio rice container. 2T of butter, 2T of olive oil, a large shallot rather than the chopped onion, bubbling for three minutes. Stir in a cup of Arborio rice and moosh it around for another two minutes. Add a cup of the woozy vegetable juice and stir until it is absorbed. Add a second cup and do likewise. Finish it off with a third cup of liquid. I had to add a little water to make up that third cup, as I ran out of juice and didn’t want to add more cooking sherry, and I had no chicken stock.
When I spooned it into the storage container for later, it tasted wonderful, but the rice was not quite fully cooked, nor was all the liquid absorbed. But I was afraid that if I stood there stirring one more minute, I would literally go stir-crazy. And I figure that half an hour of cooling down on the counter before it hits the fridge, will solve that. And if not, well I’m the only one who will be eating it and it will just be a little al dente.
May I state for the record how wonderful it feels to be well! I haven’t coughed in days and days. Who knew that breathing warm, heavily chlorinated air was good for the lungs? [My lungs, anyway.] And nothing hurts. It’s getting easier and easier to walk up the stairs into the building at work. A good thing, too, because this coming week it’s my turn to get the early mail in the morning. They’ve replaced the parking meters at the back of the Post Office, so I will start parking back there because there are eight fewer steps to lug that tray of mail up or down. [Healthy exercise is one thing; masochism is another entirely.] I would rather pay the quarter that is budgeted for getting the mail and park at the meter, than park for free at the front of the building and have to walk up more steps. Ask me again in six months.
Remember those alphabet beads that were all the rage among crafty folk, ten or more years ago? I have three tubes of them somewhere, and about a week ago I saw four beads that spelled out my name, and do you think I can remember where I saw them, now that I want to use them?
And do you think they still carry them in the stores? They do not! I went to JoAnn’s and Michael’s and came out empty-handed both times, except for the thread that I need to work on my Valentine’s Day gift for my dinner group buddy.
West Side Story, C’est Fini!
We have survived West Side Story. Brother Sushi and I had our monthly dinner last night and went on to the play, where we were joined by Firstborn, Lark, Secondborn, and Leslye, who is LittleBit’s Laurel [16-17-year-old girls] adviser. I think in the Church we spell it Laurel Advisor. Anyway, Leslye advises them, which is great because a lot of people that age will no longer accept advice from their respective parental units. But I digress.
Here is a non-silly picture.
LittleBit has something else to be happy about besides the play being over. HerBoy gets to fly home next weekend for the three-day weekend. His birthday is/was this weekend sometime, and she told him that there was no point in his flying home now because she wouldn't get to see him because of the performances.
She is learning to be the neck. [Line from My Big Fat Greek Wedding, where the heroine’s mom tells her daughter something like “the man is the head of the family; the woman is the neck; the neck turns the head.”]
I Shall Not Be Moved
Middlest and I, unfortunately, have had to deal with heads that stubbornly refuse to be moved. I have faith that we will each, in God's own good time, find heads that are worth turning. Middlest is doing remarkably well, considering her insane living situation. Rudyard Kipling comes to mind. “If you can keep your head while all about you/Are losing theirs, and blaming it on you...”
I am in the middle of turning the heel on LittleBit's second sock. Which means that in the next few days I will cast on for Middlest's socks. Every woman whose husband develops cold feet [and a heart to match], deserves a pair of hand-knit socks suitable for wearing while kicking him to the curb.
Found them, in a tiny Ziploc bag with my star buttons. Here they are, sewn to the lapel on my denim duster. In case of amnesia, I can look down and read:
Note: this is from the first batch of photos I took using the macro setting on my camera. And as you can see, the embellishment of this duster is still underway. I think I will do a little more hand-sewing after church today.
A fortune cookie wouldn’t lie, now would it?
“You are admired for your impeccable tastes”. Yes, particularly my taste in friends and family. Thank you, and bless you, every one.
- Five years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!