LIFE OF A SPAZ

Today I managed to spill a very, very large, hot coffee on myself. It was the clown car of coffees in the way it just kept pouring and pouring and pouring out of it's fairly tiny cup until I managed to cover my neck(?), hair, shirt, bra underneath, sweater, pants, underwear underneath, socks, shoes and then there was still enough to pour all over my desk and splash on to my white bag on the floor. It was totally bizarre how completely and entirely SOAKED I looked as if someone had dunked me in a dunk tank. It was so bad that I actually had to walk to H&M down the block and buy new clothes before my meeting. Not just a shirt. Not just a sweater but irratatingly enough an entirely new outfit down to socks. For the record-the new wing off of the H&M in mid-town complete with track lighting and a kicking stereo system and cage dancers and live animals has been entirely funded by ME thanks to my serial number of desperate purchases of similar nature on a regular basis.

TONIGHT'S MENU

Deep Purple, Overcooked Shrimp with
Tasteless Shallots, Chewy, Bitter Fennel
Chunks and a Heavy Pungent
Gorgonzola Polenta Paste

Mmmmm. Dig in.


My future husband is a man that can cook. On a normal, tiring, long week night when I can barely peel back the foil lid of a yogurt, you can find E flipping calmly through a cookbook or pressing send on an email to me with the subject line-'Making monkfish. You in?'

It's amazing to be with a guy that cooks. It rocks in fact. I finally get to live out my 1950's husband dream-'Honey, I'm home!' put down my coat and hat, be given a drink and a kiss on the cheek and off I go to sit down and watch TV until the delicious smells from the kitchen take over and my stomach growls in anticipation of the great tastes to come.

The only problem with such a routine is the inevitable guilt that arises after some time when the ratio of dishes washed on my part to fantastic meals cooked on his seems out of whack, unfair and even cruel. When this happens, I am overcome by a sudden but familiar panic where I actually entertain the crazy thought, 'You know? I should really cook something nice tonight!'

I like to think of this insanity as a reoccuring amnesia of sorts impossible to cure. Despite the outcome of similar culinary outbursts in the past-soups tasting only of water and salt, roasted potatoes so hard they could make replacement pieces for Jenga, etc. I still manage to plunge forth with a determination so great fueled by the fact it will be me-yes me-that makes E the best meal he's eaten in a long, long while.

Tonight I had one of those horrible outbursts. It came in the form of deep purple shrimp (oh yeah-use white wine not red), tasteless shallots (oh yeah-cook until clear-not invisible), fennel (oh yeah-kind of a significant taste) and gorgonzola polenta (oh yeah-fish and cheese-the forbidden combo) Other than that it tastes great.

However, I don't feel too bad. Should he need one I left an extra yogurt in the fridge.