I dunno what the deal is with the not-posting. I mean, I go through my day composing brilliant posts with witty titles, and then I don't sit down at the computer till waaaaaayyy later, and by then, the clever titles are gone, and the posts are out-dated.
Oh well. So you're going to get a week's worth of highlights at once. Here you go...
I had a craving for beef goulash last week (as in, a PMS-inspired need to take a bite out of a cow's arse right now, me want red meat now!) So on Monday night, I pulled out the slow cooker, opened a bottle of wine, and went to work. Equal weights of onion and browned stewing beef, a whack of paprika, some tomato paste, and a good dollop of red wine. I started photographing the process:
And then the wine kicked in, so that's all I got. (That was only about 2/3 of the onion, too.) Turned on the slow cooker the next morning before work, let it all simmer and stew for hours, came home to a most delicious smell. I had a crusty Italian loaf that I transmogrified into garlic bread - soooo good! Except..well...while the bread was in the oven, I thought I'd try the goulash. Tried a piece of the meat...mmmmm! Fell apart on my fork. I dipped a bread crust into the sauce - and burned the shite out of the roof of my mouth. (This was on Tuesday. Which is relevant later. There may be a quiz.)
Dinner was quite tasty, if I do say so myself. And if a bit painful. But well worth it.
The rest of the week was rather a blur - yay for short weeks after 4-day weekends! Besides, it's the weekend that's really important here. In particular, Saturday. BBC Pride and Prejudice marathon, with potluck dinner and knitters. And gin. Could it get much more fun? I think not! Our lovely hostess Kyrsten cooked up a veritable vat of veggie spaghetti sauce; there was artichoke dip and spinach salad. And home-made foccaccia bread that was to die for.
Also, it was very crusty. And scrape-y on the roof of my mouth. Which I noticed was still quite sore, 4 days after the original injury. But in no way did it impede my enjoyment of dinner.
There was much heady discussion, about such intellectual and earth-shifting matters as whether Mr.Darcy was sexier in the blousy shirt, all sweaty from fencing; or in the blousy shirt, all dripping from his impromptu bathe.
(Me, I vote for the fencing scene. I guess I just like a man who can handle his sword.)
(Think there's something Freudian in that?)
(Best line of the night, without question, goes to Damselfly, who suggested that the best sequel to Pride and Prejudice and Zombies is not, in fact, P & P & Robots, but "Pride and Predator." I'm still snorting about that one!)
Also, there was dessert. In fact, there were two of them. One, I brought - strawberry chocolate mousse cake:
Very, very rich. And right tasty. Yarnpiggy also brought a most scrumptious crisp, with berries and mangoes, topped off with coconut-milk ice cream. Alas, I took no photos of that tasty treat, but after the richness of the chocolate, the fruit was most refreshing.
All in all, a fabulous evening!
Then, I woke up in the middle of the night coz my mouth was so sore. Not so fabulous. I remembered a co-worker at a restaurant I worked at in college - she was testing a batch of soup, and bit into a piece of potato with a pocket of super-hot water inside. Burned herself really badly, and it got infected.
Not wanting to experience this particular joy (and, being concerned that it was already the case), I got up early-ish on Sunday to go to the nearest walk-in clinic for a look-see. Mr.Q offered to come with and keep me company. So, off we went. I got in right away (the experience with the doctor and the whole ninety seconds he spent with me is a rant for another time) A brief look inside my mouth, and he declared it "red, but not infected." He gave me a prescription for some anaesthetic goop, told me to avoid hot foods (like I hadn't figured that out all on my own!) and sent me on my way.
(Did I mention the whole ninety second thing?) But, I was too relieved to be spared an infection to fuss much. We were waiting for the bus home, when my phone rang. Weird, since the only people who usually call me (especially before noon on a Sunday) are Mr.Q, who was standing right next to me; and my sister, with whom I had just spoken a few minutes earlier.
It was my Dad, wanting to know what the emergency was. I was more than a little confused...what emergency? Huh? What's going on? I soon figured out that Mr.Q had posted a Facebook status update about taking me to the clinic. So kind of my parents to check in on me! But hardly a critical emergency.
Then, we got home. Where I discovered that Mr.Q had posted to the effect of "Taking Mrs.Q to the emergency clinic for burn treatment." Which set off a flurry of panicked responses by friends, family, and passing acquaintances. Go figure.
He didn't get it: "But it's true!"
Yeah, OK pal. We did go to the walk-in clinic, because I had burned my mouth. But when you put it like that, it sounds like the stove blew up on me, or I had an accident in my fire-breathing class or something!
So I spent a good part of Sunday afternoon sending out messages, reassuring people that I was, in fact, just fine. And planning meals of soft, room-temperature, non-citrusy foods.
The goop is the same stuff that the dentist applies before giving Novocaine shots. So the association is more fun than I can handle. Not. Also, I'm kind of sick of pudding and applesauce. And would really like a cup of hot coffee. But I tried pizza for supper tonight (a surprisingly good organic thin-crust frozen pizza - will definitely buy when it's on sale again!) Not the brightest idea. Back to the goop and yoghurt for couple days yet, at least! Woot.
And that's all she wrote. For today, at least. (Cell phone pics from the bus of the 4/20 rally at the Art Gallery yesterday didn't turn out, and I didn't go, so I'd feel funny posting about it. Though I do wonder if the whiff I got through the open bus window, and subsequent purchasing of Ruffles All-Dressed chips, are in any way related. Sweet FSM, I do love this city some days!)
OK, really going now. I'll leave you with gratuitous fuzzy cute-ness: