I made BREAD, y'all. In an uncharacteristic fit of domesticity, I made a kickass dinner last night. There was Cornish game hen, which sounds fancy but is a really easy staple of our diet. 1 hen = dinner for two. And a sweet potato for me and red potatoes for D. And a salad! A beautiful lettuce and red onion and green apple and walnut salad with a HOMEMADE basil and chive balsamic vinagrette. Homemade salad dressing! Can you believe that shit?
Anyway, I also wanted to make some bread (that would be the Rosemary and Olive Oil Flatbread from MS Living 3/06, page 90) but am completely unable to digest recipe directions correctly. So I read the recipe and got out all of the ingredients and was totally sure I understood the time and steps necessary and was also totally sure that I could make it in time for dinner that evening. Until I got to the end of step 2 (Freaking step 2! Who loses reading comprehension by step 2?!?), which reads: "Refrigerate at least 6 hours or overnight." Christ.
So no bread with fancy dinner. However, that means that I am enjoying a lovely evening of lots of wine and rosemary garlic flatbread, which turned out AWESOME, if a day late.
While we're discussing my utter failure at domesticity, I spent Sunday doing laundry and catching up on ironing. I have a love-hate relationship with ironing. I find it very satisfying to make wrinkles go away, but am really bad at it, so end up wrinkling the parts I just ironed. Mostly ironing is an excercise in damage control and it takes me forever, so I don't do it often, so it backs up, so when I finally get around to ironing, I spend about four hours doing it. (I'm kickass at laundry, however. There is no stain I can't conquer. See previous post about how I removed copious amounts of dog blood from sheets and duvet cover TWICE in one week!) Anyway, so I'm ironing. And ironing. And ironing. As I finish, I hang the shirts on the opposite side of the ironing board. Can you guess where this story is going? Because it's totally obvious what happens, and yet I somehow didn't see it coming. I lean over the ironing board, and the HOT IRON SET ON COTTON/LINEN, AKA HOT ENOUGH TO MELT HUMAN FLESH and burned the inside of my inner upper arm. Like the inside of my right bicep. Who does this? How do you burn the inside upper part of your dominant arm while ironing? So now I have an oozy, weepy sore on my arm, which I'm keeping covered with gauze so my shirt a) doesn't rub and b) doesn't soak up the oozy weepiness. And, for those of you who aren't familiar with my weirdly non-sensitive, sensitive freakout skin, I'm alergic to the adhesive in bandages. So there's an angry, red, rectangular frame around my angry, red, weeping sore.
Do you see why I don't even bother with domesticity?
Thursday, March 16, 2006
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2 comments:
All through college I refused to wear anything that needed to be ironed. If I couldn't take it out of the dryer without wrinkles, then I left it in my closet. Now that I work in an office that requires this sort of attire most of the time... I rely on Max. If he didn't do the ironing I would never look professional! :)
Erin thinks that posting a few pictures gives her the right... heh heh... just kidding... I've been checking too but who's counting?
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