My Anxious-Sunday Syndrome began in grammar school and continues still, almost comforting in its reliability. I hope that someday Sunday afternoons and evenings will feel like weekend, not the night before an interview, but by now I should know this is a false hope.
It was under the panicky anticipation of this week-as-yet-unstarted that I tripped over a power cord stretched between outlet and portable DVD player (resting innocuously on my bed), pitched forward into a door, and caught the fall with my face. It was quite a shock: I lead a cautious and deskbound life, so it’s been years since I’ve drawn blood with anything besides a kitchen knife. I cleaned myself up and started wailing about it as soon as there was somebody around to pay attention to me. This happened to be my brother, who is something of a self-made expert on split chins and was satisfactorily indulgent: “Hmm, bet that really hurt!” The cut was hardly big enough to warrant a Band-aid, let alone a butterfly (my family’s traditional proxy for a trip to the emergency room), but I do have a big bruise that makes my chin look like a peeled russet with a bad end.
This all happened after Halloween, thank goodness, because Laura Petrie would never be so clumsy; that, of course, was Rob’s job. And I was right: getting costumed early in the morning – for work, no less! – seemed impossibly daunting. Instead, I wore a set of my sister’s scrubs with a white coat over, which was very much like wearing PJs to the office and made the whole day seem festive.
I had more time to prepare on actual-Halloween, and I needed it. I haven’t spent so long getting ready since prom, and my makeup skills haven’t improved much since then. The false eyelashes were a big surprise – they looked kind of good! I could hardly hold my eyes open, but such is the price of looking like, upon inspection of the pictures, myself with curled hair. (The effect was improved when I met up with my boyfriend, who, trooper that he is, had found a tweed blazer and appropriately skinny tie; he wouldn’t trip over an ottoman for me, though.) All that, and I opened the door to three groups of trick-or-treaters.
Where’s my martini?
We still haven’t gotten a fall cool-down around here, but the time change has made weather-incongruent meals more palatable as dinnertime now falls under the forgiving cover of darkness.
Sunday: Shepherd’s pie, salad
Monday: Baked fish, rice pilaf, salad
Tuesday: Pasta puttanesca, salad
Wednesday: Sloppy joes, chips, fruit
Thursday: Takeout
A strong start, anyway.
My shepherd’s pie (a shepherd’s pie/cottage pie hybrid, actually) comes from a recipe that looks a lot like Alton Brown’s, by no little coincidence. It’s pretty standard, with peas, carrots, corn – really, just another way to ruin would-be hamburgers. My most recent preparation of the pie, however, led to a wonderful discovery: mashed potatoes can sit on the stove, fluffy and quiet and hot, for a long time. Like, half an hour, or maybe even more! I stirred in some (additional) hot milk and they were ready to go. I feel like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders, since potatoes have always caused a disproportionate amount of my Thanksgiving stress. When to start boiling? Will they be ready on time? Or overcooked? How can I mash them and make the gravy at the same time?! It’s a wonder I could even function under the pressure.
Didn’t the split chin happen POST-Halloween? Where are the Laura P pix??? Must photgograph the next Shepard’s pie!
Mom: Oh my gosh, how did I let that slip through? Yes, it was after Halloween! And I do still need to post pics!
Frannie: It appears to be all fixed up now. I love Guard Squirrel! (and LP, of course)