southern comfort

I am so very much looking forward to Thanksgiving this year.

I always look forward to Thanksgiving -- it's by far my favorite winter family-gathering holiday. This year it holds even more appeal, for several reasons:

1) We get to spend time with my parents at their house. Which contains them, the dog, a heated pool, and a jacuzzi. I may never leave.

2) My mother actually delegated responsibility to me for several holiday meal dishes. I will be making a salad of haricots verts, toasted walnuts, blue cheese, and dijon vinaigrette; roasted butternut squash with shallots and sage; and my soon-to-be-famous cranberry relish, which actually consists of opening a few jars of Apple-Orange Cranberry Relish and putting it in a bowl. (I don't work on commission; it's seriously that good.)

3) We are going to spend two nights in Charleston to celebrate our first wedding anniversary. We are going to stay at a lovely inn (that also has a heated pool), eat ridiculously sublime food and walk around one of the most architecturally wonderful antebellum cities in the nation.

4) Did I mention staying at my parents' house? With the pool? And the jacuzzi?

Mom and Dad have invited an assortment of friends to join in the turkey-day festivities, which makes me happy, because I think Thanksgiving is always a "the more, the merrier" situation. What can I say? I like parties.

Then again, I stumbled upon Banana Republic's new "Celebrate"advertising campaign, and -- seriously? What were they thinking? First of all, at least one guy in the picture looks like he's ready to leave, given the scarf, and the human being with its back to the camera is, from that angle, entirely androgynous; I can only assume it's female because it's carrying a purse. One girl looks angry, bored, stoned, or all of the above; one girl and one guy are staring longingly at the androgyne; another girl is staring longingly at the first starer; and none of them appears to be interacting in any way. They don't even seem to have coordinated on the dress code, which, come on, Banana. This is no way to sell clothing.

Moreover, if any party I ever hosted looked like that one? I think I'd become a hermit. Or get all new friends. Yargh.

is santa on PB's catalogue list?

After six months of occasional (read: obsessive) scrolling though our honeymoon pictures online, I finally got my act together and started printing some of the ones I would eventually like to frame and display.

That's the good news. The bad news, of course, is that now I need frames.

I'm not normally picky about my picture frames -- the more minimal, the better, at least if you look at the art already hanging in our apartment. When I was most active in photography (back in the pre-digital days of high school), I displayed a lot of my work, but never framed, only matted. I'd like to say it was all to highlight the primacy of the art, but really it's just because that was what we could do in the darkroom.

So now I'm actually trying to have confidence in my ability as an artist and give some of my work the credence it deserves, while being both creative and conscious of interior design in not only our current home but also in whatever home(s) we may occupy in the near or the distant future.

If you made it through that sentence without gouging your eyes out, you probably understand why I've come thisclose to just hurling the prints out the window and forgetting I ever had this idea.

Pottery Barn, however, has a series of multi-size opening frames that come in black or white and accommodate the collage-like display style I'm looking to achieve. They epitomize my personal framed-art design aesthetic.

They are also slightly outside my price range.

Still, I went to the mall yesterday to acquire the three-opening white wood frame for a few of the 4x6 prints I have. It looks fantastic. And despite our recent absurd eucational spending, I need not cringe every time I look at it, because I did not spend my own money.

When I started my seasonal job, you see, I learned that gift cards from one Williams-Sonoma store are accepted at the others. My brain immediately translated this nugget of information as, "I can shop at Pottery Barn!" So I hurried to the frame section, gift cards clutched in my hot little hand, and now have a pretty fantastic start to capitalizing on the one artistic hobby for which I have a shred of actual talent.

I have my eye on the multi-size nine-opening black wood frame for my next project -- which, sadly, my gift cards will not quite cover. However, the other piece of information I learned is that if I were a long-term employee, I would also get my discount at the other stores. It would not be gift-card-funded, but my brain immediately translated this second nugget of information as, "I could shop with abandon at Pottery Barn!"

I may have found incentive to stay on.

a generally perfect evening

Chinese food. Yummy, spicy, prepared-by-other-people Chinese food. Enough for leftovers.

Election coverage. Stephanopolous, Williams, Colbert, and Stewart in particular.

And the cherry on top? Britney dumped Kevin. My faith in the universe is moderately restored.

i'm surprised they didn't just ask for our firstborn

Dear Multiple Prominent Graduate Schools of Law and/or Public Policy,

Tonight, after much sweat and toil over testing and personal statement writing, we threw wads of cash at you as the last step of a concerted effort to get you to accept Mr. Maltese as a student. We wrote checks and gave you the embossed numbers from several different pieces of rectangular colored plastic. We did this all for the privilege of waiting to hear if we will be packing our bags and moving to your location sometime next summer.

Here's the really funny part: If you do in fact grant admission to your illustrious halls of learning, we don't recoup our wager. It would seem only fair for you to then throw wads of cash at us. This is, after all, the premise of the state lotto and the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes.

But for you, that's not how it works. (Are you dealing with a slightly different demographic? Hm.) If Jim actually gains entry -- thanks to his stellar background and hard-working nature -- into your exclusive club of academe, we actually get to throw more cash at you for the next four whole years!

Clearly -- despite the elusive and only vaguely possible promise of merit scholarships -- you have worked this out to your advantage. You are indeed very clever. I doff my hat.

As for my next order of business (post-hat-doffing, that is)? I'm going to go cut up all my credit cards and place an urgent call to Ed. If you need to reach me tomorrow, check the library. I seem to remember a children's how-to book for turning straw into gold.

Yours,

Leigh

...which is why we're friends

If you thought I was the biggest grammar nerd in your life, then you haven't met my best friend.

I trust everyone to go read her fabulous piece. Or at least to rethink his/her stance on prepositions.

two weddings. six days. three thousand miles.

Your mother will notice immediately that you've darkened your hair. Which is why she's your mother, and why you love her.

You will have to wait an hour for luggage from a plane parked so close to the baggage claim that you could walk to it and unload your bags yourself.

You will love your mother's haircut and Audrey Hepburn-esque skinny pants.

Your father will almost instantaneously locate two high-end electronics stores in a mall he could never previously find his way around without help.

You will do that thing where you read signs aloud while your parents drive around ("You asked for it...you got it...Toyotaaa...").

You will do so because everything in your hometown has changed and you're nonplussed by it. (Scary in more ways than one.)

You will be somewhat reassured, though, when you realize at your oldest friend in the world's wedding that some people look exactly the way they did as children.

Your husband will never again make the comment "Gosh, we're making such good time!" on a road trip.

You will decide that nobody should ever have to spend two hours in traffic in Delaware.

Your best friend and her boyfriend will be waiting for you at one of your favorite restaurants, and you will be so excited to see them after ten hours in the car that you will talk like you're on speed and gesture like you're a Borscht-belt comedian.

You will call your parents from a hotel bar when the St. Louis Cardinals win the World Series, and later they will ask, "Just how much had you been drinking?" -- since the last time you cared that much about baseball was probably the last time the Cards won the World Series. (You were three then.)

Your best friend will contemplate borrowing your favorite earrings, prompting you to whip out your box o' jewelry, because if you're anything, it's prepared for a jewelry emergency.

You will feel as though you've known your best friend's fantastic boyfriend for as long as you've known her, and only worry after the fact that joking around with him as though he's familiar with your nerdtastic sense of humor might not have made the right impression. (Cf. "Do you really covet the blueberry French toast??" Hi, I'm a dork!)

You will be asked by the manicurist if you and your best friend are sisters.

You will not quite know how to answer that question, since it's kind of "No but..." situation.

You will run out of witty answers to "So what do you do up there in Maine?"

Your sweater's hook closures will attach themselves to your lace dress and you will cause unintentional hilarity when you are forced to announce to your tablemates, "Don't mind my husband; he's just attempting to detach me from my sweater."

You will hate, hate, hate having to say goodbye to your parents one weekend and then your best friend the next and return to your home hundreds of miles away.

You will remember just how very much you love your husband, and be glad you have him at your side to share all of this.
Especially Delaware.

whatever happend to blocks and marbles?

Given my current state of post-travel fatigue, I would think I hallucinated this and chalk it up to exhaustion, except my husband saw it too. We were both somewhat horrified.

I'm having a massive internal debate right now, because I don't know what's worse: that this toy even exists, or that it is marketed in conjunction with this one.

Sometimes, I fear for the future.

Particularly the future of the kid who stars in the ad for the Superman muscle suit, because given the prevalence of video preserved on the internet these days? His post-pubescent life is ruined.

big brother goes shopping

This?

Seriously the most dangerous thing to happen to my bank account since, um, ever.

Clearly it's not enough for the leviathan company that is Gap, Inc. for there to be days on end when I leave the house and realize every item of clothing, including underwear, comes from some outpost of their empire.

No, they need more, more, more! Now they have to go making it easy for me to browse and order designer shoes? I might as well just sell my soul, or tattoo their NYSE call letters on my body.

Somebody hide my Luxe card.

punktastic

I asked Desiree yesterday to save all of Nina's baby clothes for me. Ostensibly this was all in good save-the-Earth recycling faith, but in reality, it was entirely so that, in the (not imminent so don't freak out Mom and Dad!) future, I can dress my child in this t-shirt.

i have an odd description of the word "fun"

Today's project: Purchase and hang a spice rack.


Tomorrow: Prepare an elaborate fall dinner for Laura, Jim and me.

Best weekend ever. And yes, I know I'm weird.

dream a little dream of squee

Occasionally I start to put together a list of things I want to find in my next place of residence.

I don't mean restaurants or school districts. I don't even really care if there are decent gyms or a Whole Foods in the region. (Update: Whole Foods is coming to Portland in February. Yay! Only 32 months after I came here.)

No, I'm not looking at the big picture so much; I'm talking about my individual site of habitation, often known to others as a "home."

Unfortunately, I fear that the requirements vastly outpace my own purchasing power. For example, items that routinely show up in my daydreams include the following:

My dream kitchen, complete with stainless-steel appliances, a silent yet capacious dishwasher, impeccable lighting (hey, I am a theatre geek at heart) and wine refrigerator;

My own washer and dryer, preferably Energy Star-rated but still capable of doing a massive load of color all in one go;

A Roomba.

OK. I kind of don't so much care about the Roomba, but I had to throw something remotely afforable in there, so as not to seem entirely out of touch with reality.

Sigh. I think it's abundantly clear that I both want and do not want to be a real adult. A Roomba? Seriously.

But I would give my left pinky finger for a washer-dryer. There are some things on which one just cannot compromise.

this is why i support public radio

The weekend before last, Jim and I were coming in from some errands and we ran into the Green-Independent candidate for the one of the city's seats in the State House of Representatives.

I've never actually met a politican going door-to-door before; it seems somewhat quaint and old-fashioned, but then a) this is Maine and b) the dude was wearing Birkenstocks, so it wasn't really all that surprising.

What was a shock was that my name was not on his list of registered voters.

I registered in Maine when we moved here and I got my driver's license converted from Massachusetts. I voted in the Presidential election in 2004 -- I got the little sticker that said "I Voted!" and everything. Yes, I know I should have voted in any number of smaller municipal races since then, but I didn't, and besides, I was fairly sure that failure to do so would not result in being purged from the voter registration rolls.

Then, driving home from a proctoring event this afternoon, NPR taught me that, indeed, it just might.

Disappeared. Gone. Poof! No record of me, either in married or unmarried nomenclative form.

To be fair, it's not so much my lack of voting as the fact that, in trying to do the logical thing and consolidate the numerous lists of voters in the country, the various and sundry state offices didn't quite get it right. Maine probably never told Massachusetts to take me off their rolls, and so when duplicate registrations were eliminated, both of mine fell into the gaping maw of the Secretary of State's office.

Still. Bureaucratic idiocy notwithstanding, I'm pretty sure I still exist, and I'd like the state to reassure me of that prior to November 7th. I'd better get right on that.

And, hey, on the bright side -- now I'm voting under an entirely new name. No one will know where I've come from! I'll be the mysterious registered Independent. Isn't that always the best kind?

piping-bag dreams

Yesterday, since it was an absolutely perfect fall day just about at the height of leaf season, Jim and I decided to go apple-picking.

There are a zillion and one pick-your-own (or not) orchards in Maine -- many of which are members of the American Pomological Society (which: hee) -- and they grow just about any type of apple you could want. However, we had it on good authority from the culinarily omniscient Mr. Freed that the Macoun apple is well-nigh unmatched for all apple-y services rendered. Therefore, we set out on a search for the mighty Macoun.

Luckily, the orchard, which we chose almost entirely at random, not only seems to specialize in Macouns, but also seems to have planted them so that they were at the height of ripeness yesterday. We filled two half-bushel bags, and while we did diversify a little bit so as not to be unfair to the McIntoshes and Golden Deliciouses looking longingly at us from their own branches, we definitely brought home quite a haul of Macouns.

We also picked up a half-gallon of fresh sweet cider and a few bite-sized steaming hot cider doughnuts to bring home. The cider made it; two of the doughtnuts, though, did not last long in their happy paper bag. However, it was much needed sustenance for the next phase of the day, which involved a prolonged and exciting stop at Williams-Sonoma on the way home.

Through some crafty gift-card-swapping, I wound up with a couple of hundred dollars in Sonoma gift cards. It's not as though there was anything there I really, oh, needed, per se; but I did want many things. Some new mixing bowls, for example, and fancy dipping oil and balsamic vinegar. Jim actually needed a new meat thermometer. And -- since the backseat of the car was filled with apples -- the pièces de resistance: new pie pans, of course.

I did almost -- almost! -- throw frugality to the wind and run off with a roasting pan and rack, which item I do not have. However, I didn't feel like exhausting all of my gift cards on one item, and so I refrained. (But damn they were pretty.)

Today dawned also crisp and clear, and my mission, as I chose to accept it, was to bake a Macoun apple pie from scratch and then make an enormous batch of five-alarm turkey chili to share with friends in the evening.

Looking around right now while my pie is in the oven, I can see that the mission included a hidden directive as well, which goes as follows: Dirty every utensil and item of cookware/bakeware in the kitchen, some more than once, before the day is out. This message will self-destruct when the dishwasher cycle is complete.

In any case -- who cares about dishes! -- the pie smells fantastic. I've never been overly fond of double-crust apple pie, so mine has a single shell and an oat-walnut-streusel topping. Once it's out of the oven and cooling, I will start the chili, so that by the time Laura and Don come over, everyone will be able to dive right in. I hope the pie is enough for them tonight. Next on the list (probably tomorrow) I think I shall make an apple crostata, or perhaps a modified tarte Tatin. We have so many apples! What an excuse to bake!

I'm starting to think that even Donna Reed would find my concept of the perfect day frightening. I actually considered buying the mechanized pastry bag at Sonoma, although I couldn't for the life of me figure out why one would need such a thing. Instead, I filled out an application for part-time and seasonal sales associate.

Because, dude. I would so kick ass in that little green apron.

agincourt

I started feeling somewhat less than healthy yesterday evening, and today I woke feeling pretty awful. It's about the right time of year for that: Between the third and fifth weeks of school, fully 90% of my SAT students bring germs to class, and different germs at that. Even the hardiest immune system would take a beating.

Mine? I believe it has learned to cry uncle without even putting up a fight.

My husband indulged my desire for Greek food, did the laundry I'd meant to start before I realized that carrying it down the stairs had sapped all my daily energy allotment, and then went to buy me juice.

He called me on his way home.

"I just wanted to tell you to expect a surprise," he said.

"A...surprise?" I asked.

"You'll see," he replied.

Given my general inability to muster anything even vaguely resembling patience whatsoever, it was a good thing that the store is a mere five minutes from home. Nothing is better than a surprise when the most excitement one has had all day is discovering one has awakened from a nap just in time for DS9.

Jim arrived, and in the bag with the yummy juice (it tastes like liquid raspberry Jell-O!) I found one of my all-time favorite movies.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold -- just for widescreen versions of films seemingly released to DVD in miniscule numbers and all but disappeared from mainstream shelves (stupid profit margins). I'm thinking that the feast of Crispin Crispian may come a little early this year.

days of eeyore

Every once in a while of late, I've been getting hit with a little wave of sadness that I lack, in the moment, a nickname.

It's tough to shorten a one-syllable name, I'll admit, and my given name does not lend itself to er, nicking. Nicknames also are not always a welcome adjunct to life. I am probably wholly responsible for an entirely new generation of non-St. Louisans knowing my best friend by her nickname rather than her beautiful given name, and I will most likely continue to apologize for that until we're too old to remember there was ever an option.

My husband uses his full given name at work, but it's nearly impossible for me to remember to address him as such when in the presence of office colleagues, leading to innumerable blank stares and forced laughter about the confusion his dual nomenclated status confers.

Regardless, I never really had a nickname beyond those created by my family. One cousin's initials (prior to her marriage) spelled a homophone for my name, and that became her nickname before I was born, so in order to avoid confusion, that part of the family often used my first and last name to address me. On the other side of the family, the same moniker got adopted for...well, frankly, I haven't the slightest idea why, but it did. All the same, since full name address is generally reserved (when one is young) for those moments when one is really seriously in trouble and I mean it young lady, it never struck me as the kind of thing I should spread as a nickname. Fine from family, but way too formal for friends.

My parents have a pet name for each other that got diminuted (clearly I'm making up words here, but I don't care) for me. They call each other Boo, after a long-retired pantyhose commercial (...no, really), and thus they called me Baby Boo. They rarely employ it now, I admit, but if I sign a birthday card that way, they don't wonder who sent it.

However, I am also, or was also, Lele -- since, with a name like mine, you can't shorten it to make an endearment, might as well double it. It's been ages and ages since anyone had reason to call me by this particular nickname, and recently, I'd started to miss it.

It seems a silly thing, really, to reminisce about a nickname. There are so many other terms of endearment that get used regularly -- my husband and I rarely address each other by name -- but only a nickname is particular to an individual. And so, occasionally, I found myself sighing that I wish someone, anyone, would have a reason to reinstate my nickname. Or, perhaps, bestow upon me a new one.

This morning I was sitting at the computer reading my morning news items when a small window popped up on my screen:

Jim: Hey boo bear.
Me: !!!
Jim: I thought of that on my way to work today. "Lele the Boo."
Me: Hee! I like it.

I never told him I wanted a nickname.

I guess I didn't have to.

And I have to say? I'm pretty darn happy being his Boo Bear.

eat your heart out, shiloh

Because I think this new boy is even cuter. Congratulations, McHales!
I'd offer free babysitting, but I'm pretty sure the mileage would be the end of me.

gourmet i reserve a table, please?

Below, Gourmet Magazine's list of the Top 50 restaurants in America.

I am seriously considering making it my mission to eat at each place. After all, if Julie Powell can turn cooking everything from Julia Child's cookbook into a published tome, I'm sure there would be a market for people willing to read about someone else's expense-account-funded fine dining.

Oh, wait, that gig already exists. It's called being Frank Bruni.

So until the Times or other paper of quasi-record decides to throw money at me and send me to fancy restaurants, I am guessing I'll have to have a gimmick. I could do it by only traveling on foot or bicycle from site to site. Given that the rest of the vocation involves eating, this may not be an entirely insane idea...

Right. So back in the real world, I'd like to point out that Portland's famed Fore Street makes the list yet again, and that Durham, the District, and Philadelphia all rate at least one spot each (good news for future endeavours, no?).

My best friend and I have an as-yet unscheduled date to dine at Number 3 while wearing extraordinarily expensive shoes. Sometime after my 30th and before her 35th, I think, we just might make it.

1. Alinea – Chicago, IL*
2. Chez Panisse – Berkeley, CA
3. The French Laundry/Per Se – Yountville, CA; New York, NY
4. Spago – Beverly Hills, CA
5. Joël Robuchon at the Mansion – Las Vegas, NV*
6. La Rêve – San Antonio, TX
7. Masa – New York, NY*
8. Alan Wong's Restaurant – Honolulu, HI
9. Daniel – New York, NY
10. Le Bernardin – New York, NY
11. Magnolia Grill – Durham, NC
12. Michel Richard Citronelle – Washington, D.C.
13. Charlie Trotter's – Chicago, IL
14. Arrows – Ogunquit, ME
15. Cyrus – Healdsburg, CA*
16. Striped Bass – Philadelphia, PA*
17. Babbo – New York, NY
18. Locke-Ober – Boston, MA*
19. Canlis – Seattle, WA
20. L'Auberge Carmel – Carmel, CA*
21. Bartolotta Ristorante di Mare – Las Vegas, NV*
22. Restaurant August – New Orleans, LA*
23. The Inn at Little Washington – Washington, VA
24. The Dining Room in the Ritz-Carlton Buckhead – Atlanta, GA*
25. Vetri – Philadelphia, PA*
26. Fore Street – Portland, ME
27. Jean Georges – New York, NY
28. Higgins – Portland, OR*
29. Da Marco – Houston, TX*
30. La Belle Vie – Minneapolis, MN*
31. Parker's New American Bistro – Cleveland, OH
32. Michy's – Miami, FL*
33. Frasca – Boulder, CO*
34. Gramercy Tavern – New York, NY
35. Providence – Los Angeles, CA*
36. Restaurant Guy Savoy – Las Vegas, NV*
37. Zuni Café – San Francisco, CA
38. Urasawa – Beverly Hills, CA*
39. Bacchanalia – Atlanta, GA*
40. Sanford – Milwaukee, WI
41. York Street – Dallas, TX*
42. Manresa – Los Gatos, CA*
43. No. 9 Park – Boston, MA*
44. Trattoria Nostrani – Santa Fe, NM*
45. Cafe Juanita – Kirkland, WA*
46. Paley's Place – Portland, OR*
47. Lantern Restaurant – Chapel Hill, CA*
48. L'Etoile – Madison, WI
49. Herbsaint – New Orleans, LA*
50. Nana – Dallas, TX*

challah back

One of Jim's coworkers very kindly brought us a challah from Cambridge for Rosh Hashanah.

I am particularly enjoying the fact that Rosh Hashanah coincides with the first day of autumn -- the juxtaposition feels quite lovely that way. For the first time, I am inclined to make a big holiday feast, even though it's just the two of us here to eat it.

Of course, I refuse to get anywhere near my grandfather's preferred New Year's celebratory food, but I am thinking about an apple-rum cake and a honey-glazed roast chicken. Gotta have that sweet New Year, after all.

Is cultural heritage an excuse to cook? Given that my husband and I come from Jewish, Italian, and German backgrounds, I'd have to go with a resounding "Hell yeah!" on that one.

L'shanah tovah.

you want i should whack someone for you?

Since my husband has been sending this picture all over his office to showcase the stages of his healing process, I figured I might as well share it with the interwebs.
Seems the removal of wisdom teeth results not so much in the loss of wisdom as in the creation of a wise guy.

I just hope there's nothing in the trunk of the car that shouldn't be there. Married to the mob, indeed.

he's created a monster

Maybe it was Peter Jackson's incredible shots of New Zealand. Maybe it was my husband's pure and abiding love of all things Middle Earth. Maybe it was the hobbity goodness that is Dom Monaghan and Billy Boyd, and, yes, even Elijah Wood and Sean Astin.

But I actually held my breath when I read this:

Fans of J. R. R. Tolkien, the author of "The Hobbit" and "The Lord of the Rings," have a new epic to look forward to. Houghton Mifflin announced yesterday that it had acquired the American rights to publish "The Children of Hurin." Begun in 1918, it was a tale that Tolkien, (1892- 1973), worked on throughout his life and will take his readers once more among elves and men and dragons and dwarfs. Houghton Mifflin said in an announcement that although it had long been assumed that "The Children of Hurin" would remain unfinished, it had been reconstructed and edited by Tolkien's son Christopher, working from Tolkien's many drafts. Publication is scheduled for spring.

Aw shit. Just when I thought I'd finally finished my dalliance with Tolkien fantasy.

Damn you, Christopher Tolkien, for giving me more to read. Damn you to hell.

obviously males should bear the young of the species

My husband is recovering admirably from the extraction of his wisdom teeth.

Why is that when I had my wisdom teeth removed, I was wrecked for, oh, easily a full week? Granted, part of the problem was that I went home and went to bed, but no one had impressed upon me in my post-anaesthetic haze that I should not recline fully, so I awoke an hour or two later with all the blood in my body having rushed directly to my jaw. Not only did my cheeks swell to ungodly proportions, but I was so bruised that I believe my parents discussed, in hushed tones, whether I would ever fully recover.

I spent the next week being spoon-fed yogurt and mashed potatoes and, in one horrifyingly memorable incident, wrestling internally with myself as my stomach -- and my father, gently rubbing my shoulders -- tried to tell me it was all right to throw up, while my brain said LIKE HELL IT IS, IT COULD ONLY BE WORSE THAN HOW I CURRENTLY FEEL.

Jim? Well, he actually didn't keep down all of yesterday's food, but it didn't bother him in the least. He's beyond chipmunk-cheeked, that's for sure, but aside from the occasional dull ache, he feels pretty good. He can't chew, of course, and he's pretty much superglued to his ice-bag, but he's played a fair amount of Lego Star Wars II on the GameCube and re-watched Spider-Man 2 and thinks it's hilarious to document his swelling on the digital camera.

I actually feel kind of useless; here I was all ready, with mushy foods stockpiled to nurse him back to health, and aside from right after the surgery when the remnants of the anaesthesia knocked him for a loop, he's barely needed my help at all.

This bodes ill for when we decide to have children, as clearly he tolerates pain and bodily trauma far better than I. I guess I can consider it payback for giggling when he drooled in the recovery room.

it's a sign of the times

Nintendo's new system is being released...

...on our first anniversary.

Dude. Whatever happened to paper? Clearly Nintendo is out to get me.

(Hee. Just kidding. This goes on the Christmas list, maybe, but not the anniversary one.)

because anticipation increases the fun

So the oral surgeon's office apparently screwed up. They told Jim his surgery was today, but his doctor doesn't work Tuesdays and, unbeknownst to us, moved the appointment to Thursday.


On the upside, now I don't feel so guilty about having to work tonight. On the downside? Two more days to look forward to the tooth-extraction extravaganza. Lovely.

At least Jim can use the extra time to force-feed himself extra doses of pineapple. It's something do do with enzymes reducing swelling, I think? That, or a self-serving practical joke by the Dole people.

agnus dei

Tonight I made lamb meatballs.

Now, before you make the inevitable "meat" and "balls" jokes, let me just say that they were outrageously good, so laugh all you want. I am sated.

I had this leftover mint pesto from the big Labor Day Open House we hosted. The pesto was phenomenal, but given that it had no preservatives and was utterly homemade, was not going to last forever and ever, so I had to make something that would go well with the pesto.

And by "go well with" I mean "was not just a big bag of cardboard, because the pesto was so good that it would make even that taste delicious."

So I was at Wild Oats doing some browsing -- which is what I mostly do at Wild Oats, although their real-crab California rolls with tobiko are quite yummy -- and I noticed they had ground lamb and it was not terribly expensive, plus it was non-hormone fed.

Aside: Why would one give hormones to a lamb anyway? Isn't the point to keep them small and, er, tasty?

Regardless, the lamb was there, and tasty-looking, and not terribly expensive, and I got some, and decided to make it. And boy howdy, what a decision.

Really, really good. As in, "Good Lord, that was good."

My mom and dad have, of late, insisted I need to attend the Culinary Institute. My problem is that I do not in any way want to become an actual chef, inasmuch as chef hours may be the only hours on the planet worse than stage manager hours. Still, maybe I'll write a cookbook. Or something.

In the meantime, though, I'm going to lick the leftover mint pesto off my fingers and dream about a gas range. A girl's gotta have ambition, after all, and mine is Viking.

yeah, right, lisa. a wonderful, magical animal.

slight disconnect

What I need:

A better way of cleaning laminate flooring than a Swiffer.

A chest of drawers that actually holds all my clothes.

A way to prevent sticky dust from settling on every exposed surface (OK, this one may not actually be possible in our particular universe).

"Dripless" candles that are really, truly, dripless, so as not to destroy my silver candlesticks.

Cheap gasoline (well, this one might be modulating somewhat back into the realm of feasible).

A computer that does not crash whenever I try to open a .PDF without closing all other applications first.

Professional window-washers to clean the inside and outside of the skylight.

What I want:

yum

Life?

It is good.