Recommended wine for today’s entry: NV Evolution Lucky No. 9, Oregon White Wine. Winery Notes: “A curious blend of Pinot Gris, Riesling, Muller-Thurgau, Semillon, Gewürztraminer, Muscat Canelli, Chardonnay, Pinot Blanc and Sylvaner. The 9 grapes tie together perfectly, creating a smooth, layered white wine that can hold its own or stand up to just about any food pairing you dare to serve it with. It is extraordinarily food-friendly, from light salads to the hottest fusion-style cuisine.” This sounds like it would go well with just about anything, except maybe burned lentil soup. Appears to sell for around $18.
He’s a lucky man.
I am trying to make my husband believe that with a new subliminal technique that I’ve devised, where I get up six times in the middle of the night, mostly during his REM sleep, and lean really close to him and chant that over and over. The sixth visit, I tuck a piece of fragrant bacon inside his pillowcase and when he wakes up, he thinks — if even for a minute — that I’ve made breakfast. Over time, he’ll confuse wakefulness and half-slumber and will come to believe that he is truly a lucky man.
I really have been very domestic lately. I made dinner two nights in a row this week. This prompted the following response from my very mean daughter. I believe this is close to verbatum:
Me: Where are you going? I made dinner.
Her: What are you talking about?
Me: Uh, duh — d-i-n-n-e-r — you know, food you eat at night?
Her: What? Why? You did that yesterday. What’s going on?
Me: I always make dinner!
Her: Are you kidding me? Sometimes you make sandwiches.
She left anyway, without even asking what delicacy was available.
As you can imagine, my feelings were terribly hurt. So I had a glass of wine. After I was calmed down from our little spat, I realized that it was 8:15 and we should actually eat the dinner I had prepared. So I put the pot of lentil-barley soup that I had TOTALLY LABORED over earlier in the day (I mean, I had to open a WHOLE NEW bottle of red wine, because it called for 1/4 cup and I only had white open in the fridge.)
Not one to let anything go to waste, I put the soup on the stove and 1) gave the deer who frequently taunt my pups all the leftover vegetables that I hadn’t used in the soup; and 2) poured another glass of wine — there was too much in the fridge to drink within my 3-day limit if I didn’t get serious about this issue.
That made me hungry, so I turned the heat up to high under the soup and went to watch basketball.
It wasn’t long before I was engrossed in the game and my house smelled like the aftermath of a four-alarmer.
Yuck. This house smells weird, I said to my husband. And wow — look how much steam is coming out of the soup.
You idiot! he said, being careful not to hurt my feelings. That’s smoke!
Then I ran like a gazelle into the kitchen where I stirred the soup and large chunks of what looked like asphalt but were actually blackened lentils rose to the surface of dinner.
I poured it in the sink. I was sad, so I retrieved my wine from next to my cozy chair in front of the TV. Then we stopped the game and DVR-ed it for later while my husband opened all the windows to let in the fresh, 17-degree air. I sipped the wine while he scrubbed the bottom of the pan with a Brillo pad. I would have done it, but my vote was to throw the pot away and his was to try to save it. So naturally, he should scrub it. Besides, when I touch a Brillo pad it makes me really nauseous and it makes my teeth hurt.
So he preheated the oven for his old stand-by — Tyson’s chicken tenders — and I pulled the top off my old stand-by — Easy Mac. Then we settled down to watch more of the game. It was very cold in the house. My lips were blue and I kept sloshing my wine because I was trembling, so my husband, who HATES anything that smells — good or bad — turned on the ceiling fan.
I didn’t say anything, because it was my little faux pas that had caused the smell and even I had to admit it was bad. My eyes were watering.
As soon as the fan got to a speedy rotation, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a very sizable wad of dust launch from the end of the fan, a-r-c s-l-o-w-l-y t-h-r-o-u-g-h t-h-e a-i-r and settle perfectly into his glass of ice water.
I laughed. He opened a beer.
He’s a lucky man.