We've been eating a lot of sandwiches lately.
I think this is because on Monday I went to the grocery store fully intending to purchase the ingredients for a fine, home-cooked, nutritious meal. But as I walked past the things you usually need for such a meal (things that end in "egetable") and contemplated the effort that would be required of me once I got those ingredients home (using the stove) I found myself looking for a compromise.
The thing is, I really wanted to make dinner. In theory. But in reality what I wanted was for my mom to make me dinner. And since she is three thousand miles away and I am thirty-one years old and if I asked her she would most likely offer an apt lecture on self-reliance, I could see the impossibility of my desire.
And then I saw the sandwich meat. And I thought, "Sandwiches!!! Yes! Sandwiches are great! And frequently consumed for dinner although that is usually when you are on your way home from work or maybe on vacation!!" I grabbed a package of cracked pepper turkey and some pepper-jack cheese. And, since I wanted the illusion of tremendous effort, I got a tomato and some baby arugula. Of course I had no intention of consuming the tomato or baby arugula on account of their being vegetables (okay, I KNOW the tomato is technically a fruit) but I felt good about making them available to Paul. Far be it from me, you know?
Later in the week, as we sat at the dinner table eating sandwiches, we congratulated ourselves.
"Sandwiches are wonderful!" exclaimed Paul, and I had to concur.
"This must be what people do all the time," mused Paul, "they make themselves sandwiches. They just go to the store and then they have sandwich stuff readily available. Imagine."
"How about that pepper-jack cheese?"
"Ooooooohhhhhhh yeeeeessss....." bits of baby arugula clung to Paul's mustache as he cast an adoring glance in the general direction of his sandwich.
Paul finished his sandwich and carried his plate to the sink. I finished my sandwich, eating the crust part first so I could finish with the middle. When I turned around, Paul picked up the empty pickle jar.
And then he drank the pickle juice.
Just swilled it down, like it was a nice cold root-beer. I think he even licked his lips. There was moisture condensation on the outside of the jar, like even the pickle juice thought it was something else. This seemed wrong to me. To me, pickle juice is like a dirty secret, or maybe like dirty politics. You know it's there, but you don't do anything about it. If pickle juice was a person it would probably have a dark oily mustache and hang out in seedy bars. If you ask me.
"WHAT. ARE. YOU. DOING."
"Drinking pickle juice."
"That's disgusting."
"No it isn't. It has electrolytes. I was just reading an article about it."
"An article about pickle-juice electrolytes? I can't BELIEVE you just drank that. I don't know if I can kiss you tonight."
"Sure, pickle-juice is full of electrolytes. It's pretty much the best thing for you. Plus it's just juice."
"How can pickle juice be the best thing for you? Water. Water is the best thing for you. You really should drink more water."
"No way. What about the electrolytes?"
"Well, you should drink more water regardless of electrolytes, is my point."
"Yes."
My victory felt a little flat. Probably because we should all drink more water. And I was secretly angry with myself for not being better prepared to discuss pickle juice electrolytes.
I picked up Paul's glass of diet coke, but before taking a swig, I sniffed the rim for traces of pickle juice. It was clean.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
ladybugs are best eaten whole
Today, Gilly caught a bug.
Paul and I are so proud.
And also sorry for the bug, which was a ladybug and quite cute as far as bugs go. Had it been a spider or other less attractive insect, Paul and I would not have been sorry in the slightest.
When it comes down to it, Gilly has always been a hunter. One time when we lived in the apartment on Pinehurst we ordered pizza, and we were too lazy to take it all the way down to the garbage. I know that makes us sound really, really lazy, but you had to take the elevator or the stairs down to the first floor and then go out the back door and down these slatted metal stairs to this patio area where they kept the garbage cans. And on this particular night it was probably raining or snowing or neither of us was willing to put on pants.
So, the pizza box was placed on top of the stove, because our counter space was about the size of two shoe-boxes put together and our beloved Kitchen-Aid was renting the space. And after I had put the pizza box on the stove and started my pre-bed ritual of spending 45 minutes in the bathroom washing my face and feeling bad about not having curly hair, there was a muffled sound of scraping cardboard coming from the kitchen.
And there was Gilly, gray stripey tail waving triumphantly below the stove lamp, nose rooting amongst dry pizza crust and half empty containers of garlic sauce. She's never really been a human food type of cat, so I like to imagine that she was pretending to be a jungle cat stalking in a jungle forest where there was perhaps a recently opened jungle Papa John's.
Probably I should have hissed or shooed her away. It's probably not respectable to have your cat sitting in a pizza box on your stove. But I did not shoo, and I did not hiss. I took pictures.
And today, after Gilly defied gravity and her sagging, fur covered belly in the name of KILL KILL KILLING THE LADYBUG, Paul and I clapped. We cheered. And Paul sang:
If you have on gray fur
And you have stripey legs
And you killed a ladybug
Please stand up
And purr inside the circle, circle, circle
Purr inside the circle
Then sit down
Gilly is licking her paws right now. Sissy looks a little mad that Gilly didn't share the ladybug with her, but ladybugs are best eaten whole, in one gulp.
I've heard.
Paul and I are so proud.
And also sorry for the bug, which was a ladybug and quite cute as far as bugs go. Had it been a spider or other less attractive insect, Paul and I would not have been sorry in the slightest.
When it comes down to it, Gilly has always been a hunter. One time when we lived in the apartment on Pinehurst we ordered pizza, and we were too lazy to take it all the way down to the garbage. I know that makes us sound really, really lazy, but you had to take the elevator or the stairs down to the first floor and then go out the back door and down these slatted metal stairs to this patio area where they kept the garbage cans. And on this particular night it was probably raining or snowing or neither of us was willing to put on pants.
So, the pizza box was placed on top of the stove, because our counter space was about the size of two shoe-boxes put together and our beloved Kitchen-Aid was renting the space. And after I had put the pizza box on the stove and started my pre-bed ritual of spending 45 minutes in the bathroom washing my face and feeling bad about not having curly hair, there was a muffled sound of scraping cardboard coming from the kitchen.
And there was Gilly, gray stripey tail waving triumphantly below the stove lamp, nose rooting amongst dry pizza crust and half empty containers of garlic sauce. She's never really been a human food type of cat, so I like to imagine that she was pretending to be a jungle cat stalking in a jungle forest where there was perhaps a recently opened jungle Papa John's.
Probably I should have hissed or shooed her away. It's probably not respectable to have your cat sitting in a pizza box on your stove. But I did not shoo, and I did not hiss. I took pictures.
And today, after Gilly defied gravity and her sagging, fur covered belly in the name of KILL KILL KILLING THE LADYBUG, Paul and I clapped. We cheered. And Paul sang:
If you have on gray fur
And you have stripey legs
And you killed a ladybug
Please stand up
And purr inside the circle, circle, circle
Purr inside the circle
Then sit down
Gilly is licking her paws right now. Sissy looks a little mad that Gilly didn't share the ladybug with her, but ladybugs are best eaten whole, in one gulp.
I've heard.
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