. . . then what the hell does a March snowstorm bring? Rapid-fire profanity? Muddy trails? Hard-frozen Easter eggs? I'll let you know tomorrow, because it's bucketing down here, and the weather wizards say we could have as much as four sloppy inches on the ground by the time You-Know-Who has rolled away his stone only to see Jimmy Dobson standing outside the crypt with a shit-eating grin and a business proposal.
Herself dragged me, kicking and screaming, to a multiple-personality birthday party tonight. I wanted to hang out here in the old nerve center, playing with pixels, gargling Frog tonsil polish and committing libel, but nothing doing. A couple of former colleagues at Short Bus Community College have March birthdays, as do we, and since we're all foodies a potluck was in order.
Avery is our Queen and did most of the heavy lifting (a top-shelf, totally-from-scratch lasagna bolognese, a delicious dip whose ingredients I can't recall, the wine-buying and the hosting, with boyfriend Brendan); Steve contributed some freshly baked bread that made me wish I'd brought some butter along for the ride so we could eat the entire sonofabitch in the car; Tina, Brendan's mom, supplied her signature artichoke dip; and I concocted a roasted bell pepper salad from Giada de Laurentiis' "Everyday Italian" cookbook, a venture into uncharted culinary waters that had me standing outside in the falling snow in sweatpants, Wallace Beery shirt and Western Pack-Burro ASSociation cap, roasting red, yellow and orange peppers on the grill. No wonder the neighbors give me sidelong glances.
Anyway, I had fun against my will. I feel so violated.
1 comment:
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