Until next week, when I'll be taking over the swooping, scooping, zooming and returning. While she's gone there's a tremendous amount of imagined guilt building up about what I should have done around the house before she gets back, and because she's got the lion's share of the work to do, the amount that should be done around the house to alleviate my stress is "a shit ton".
So I read a chapter of "Let's Pretend This Never Happened" and let my time tick by, because I am almost useless unless I'm working against a clock.
While that was going on, I was exchanging texts with Leslie in a little campaign I like to call, Operation "Lower Expectations". Things like, "Ugh, I just got home, traffic was such a nightmare!" and "God, I'm so tired I could just pass out in bed right now. . . remember how Lily got up so early this morning? Yeah, getting up with her is totally dragging me to bed!"
Then I asked her what she wanted to eat for dinner and she said that was MY responsibility, and so I said, "In that case I'm thinking about making pretzels for dinner."
"I hope you didn't strain yourself with all that thinking."
"You want Doritos instead? I can thaw some out." She ignored this, so I did a search and found a chicken piccata recipe on Pinterest because, as Google continues telling me, apparently I'm a 25-34 year old woman, and I started thawing chicken and cooking angel hair pasta and mixing sauces and so forth. This is the part of the operation called, Operation "Surprise!"
|THIS was done before I blogged.|
"Hey Les, if you were to get an iphone someday. . . you know. . . not SOON or anything, but SOMEday. . . how much memory would you want on it? Would you want 16G or 32?"
"I don't know, Jim, that's really sort of your area." Fine. . . fine. . . it is. So then a couple days later. . .
"Hey Les, if you were to get an iphone someday TOTALLY not soon, would you want a black one or a white one?"
"Black. Why do you keep asking me about iphones?"
"NOT BECAUSE I'M BUYING YOU ONE! SHUT UP!"
And then the next day I had to leave a note for the UPS guy to drop the phone off and leave it because otherwise I'd have to drive to UPS to pick it up, and Leslie was leaving the house and saw something on the door and drove back up the driveway, got out of the car, read the note, rolled her eyes, got back in the car and left, waving cheerfully to me as I got in my own car.
I watched her go and said, "Well, fuck."
So then WHILE I was writing this post, she had Emma text me to say, "This is Emma, we are on our way home." She does that because I swear when I text her. So if she doesn't identify herself it would be like:
"We are on our way home."
"'Bout fuckin' time!"
"um. . . wrong number."
Anyway, she got home and the chicken was done, and the pasta was done, but the sauce was still reducing and I hadn't added the cream or capers yet, so I ran about 10 minutes late. And the sauce didn't thicken as much as I'd have liked. . . BUT. . .
She liked it. It was really good if I'm being fair. She liked it and she cleaned her plate. And then, because I had made enough to give us each lunchtime leftovers, she walked by the strainer filled with angel hair, and she nabbed a couple strands and dunked it in the sauce pan and ate it like a mama bird eating a worm (except no disgusting Alicia Silverstone regurgitation), and THEN, she got another fork or two of pasta and put it on her plate and ate THAT and THEN. . . and look. . . I don't want you to get the wrong idea about my wife, she's a LADY. . . but she tipped the plate up and drank the piccata sauce off the plate. Slurped it up. . . um. . . like a princess.
Like a princess.
So. . . the pictures:
|3-4 minutes per side in butter and olive oil. . .|
|so it looked like this. . .|
|End product! Easy recipe too!|