"You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"
This recent bite from the creative bug is infecting more than just my desire to draw. At least this is the conclusion I'm drawing. As I'd told Sarah last night, I noticed that this desire to do more/be more creative in the kitchen surfaced about the same time my desire to draw did. And now I'm wanting to paint. Googling all the Great Masters and saving the pictures. Had I the ink, I'd be printing them and sticking them in my sketch book. Something to reference. Something to admire & inspire.
I'm also exceptionally excited about our Thanksgiving Dinner I'm planning for tomorrow. I got a bird, the whole 9 yards. I've been talking about it since Monday or Tuesday, I think.
“You're looking forward to this, aren't you?” Jim'd asked with a grin.
I explained that for me the holidays had always represented a time for cooking and baking. A time for good food and lots of it.
Last night I made spaghetti. Jim called me last night and I ended up divulging all my intended surprises. Even the gizzards. He chuckled lightly as I was babbling on about the menu, but wouldn't tell me what he thought was so funny.
Then, this morning I brought in the spaghetti and Jim said, “You're trying to kill me, aren't you?”
“What??”
“With all this food.”
I do love cooking and baking. Although I must confess that it's not a consistent love. Which is not unlike my fascination with haute coture.
The only snag here, is that some of the dishes I would love to do are things that Jim probably wouldn't touch with a 40ft. pole.(Asian Cookbook, I'm looking at you.)
But it just seems so perfect that this desire to cook surfaced when it did. 'tis the season and all that rot.
But—Anyway,
Yes, I'm tickled about the Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow. I hope I can pull it off. I somehow ended up taking the pumpkin pie out and replacing it with a frozen banana creme. It's cheating, but Sarah assures me there's nothing wrong with cheating. I do intend to make fresh pies this year, but due to time issues, the only way I could squeeze in the time for a fresh one would be to go home early today. Like at noon or something. But I'm still on the proverbial picket fence with that one.
I feel slightly guilty, actually. When I talk about it with Sarah. Fixing this great feast that she may not get any of. But remembering that we'll have our own feast next Thursday with the fam. When I was babbling last night, Jim suggested I make a pie or two for next Thursday. I said I hadn't figured out exactly what, but I did intend to make stuff to bring. Deviled Eggs naturally popped to the fore and Jim said he'd bring me 2 dozen eggs. There's a part of me that's thinking about how health conscious the Family Feast will be, and how Mom will put some queer spin on an old fave. Remember the pie she made with raw sugar and some hippie wheat flour? And if I bring dishes, they'll be traditional.
Shit. This isn't getting any writing done. And last night Jim urged me to get to bed early so I'd be rested enough to write today. Really write.
Well alright. I'll open it and make myself sit in front of it. Until I can't stand it anymore.
I'm also exceptionally excited about our Thanksgiving Dinner I'm planning for tomorrow. I got a bird, the whole 9 yards. I've been talking about it since Monday or Tuesday, I think.
“You're looking forward to this, aren't you?” Jim'd asked with a grin.
I explained that for me the holidays had always represented a time for cooking and baking. A time for good food and lots of it.
Last night I made spaghetti. Jim called me last night and I ended up divulging all my intended surprises. Even the gizzards. He chuckled lightly as I was babbling on about the menu, but wouldn't tell me what he thought was so funny.
Then, this morning I brought in the spaghetti and Jim said, “You're trying to kill me, aren't you?”
“What??”
“With all this food.”
I do love cooking and baking. Although I must confess that it's not a consistent love. Which is not unlike my fascination with haute coture.
The only snag here, is that some of the dishes I would love to do are things that Jim probably wouldn't touch with a 40ft. pole.(Asian Cookbook, I'm looking at you.)
But it just seems so perfect that this desire to cook surfaced when it did. 'tis the season and all that rot.
But—Anyway,
Yes, I'm tickled about the Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow. I hope I can pull it off. I somehow ended up taking the pumpkin pie out and replacing it with a frozen banana creme. It's cheating, but Sarah assures me there's nothing wrong with cheating. I do intend to make fresh pies this year, but due to time issues, the only way I could squeeze in the time for a fresh one would be to go home early today. Like at noon or something. But I'm still on the proverbial picket fence with that one.
I feel slightly guilty, actually. When I talk about it with Sarah. Fixing this great feast that she may not get any of. But remembering that we'll have our own feast next Thursday with the fam. When I was babbling last night, Jim suggested I make a pie or two for next Thursday. I said I hadn't figured out exactly what, but I did intend to make stuff to bring. Deviled Eggs naturally popped to the fore and Jim said he'd bring me 2 dozen eggs. There's a part of me that's thinking about how health conscious the Family Feast will be, and how Mom will put some queer spin on an old fave. Remember the pie she made with raw sugar and some hippie wheat flour? And if I bring dishes, they'll be traditional.
Shit. This isn't getting any writing done. And last night Jim urged me to get to bed early so I'd be rested enough to write today. Really write.
Well alright. I'll open it and make myself sit in front of it. Until I can't stand it anymore.
posted by Sonny Shine at 9:39 AM
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