It has turned into the sort of evening in which it’s best to stay home, love on your family, and reserve comment until we know more. So I’ll do exactly that.
Blustery November weather; that’s what we have here. The temperatures are mild, but it’s drizzly and gray. Exactly what we knew we were in for, when we moved here.
I saw my new doctor for the first time yesterday. He gave me my flu shot, and today, I am flat on my arse. That flu shot was a doozy.
When I was making the grocery list this morning–before I realized I was flat on my arse–my husband requested some sort of starchy soup, to combat the damp gloom. I thought for a moment, remembered him saying something once–about seven years ago–about baked potato soup, and put it on the list.
People, listen. Baked potato soup is severely out of my comfort zone. I grew up eating stir-fry twice a week, and thinking of Indian buffets and Mongolian barbecue as the ultimate birthday-worthy treats. You want bibimbop for breakfast? I’ll make bibimbop for breakfast.
But baked potato soup?
So, slowly and with trepidation, as if learning a new language or strumming a new instrument, I followed the recipe and prayed (and collapsed for a couple hours when I was finished).
Turns out it’s bacon chowder. I mean, you know that, because you’ve had it, right? I’m the weird one here. Anyway: it was warm and starchy, as promised, and it had bacon in it, so no complaints.
Our pellet stove has been going all day, recently. It’s a temperamental beast. More trouble, even than the Italian superautomatic coffee maker. My husband has begun to call it Calcifer, which seems fitting. You see his tools and shop vac have become permanent fixtures in that corner of the library. The heat fills the library and wends its way up the stairs, where it permeates somewhat into the bedrooms. The kitchen etc. are left untouched, which is fine on evenings like this, when I heat it up by cooking, anyway.
Yesterday was my grandmother’s 102nd birthday. She has no advice for living to such an age, and says that only her fingers, which are numb, bother her. She wishes she could knit herself a woolly neckwarmer. Well, I can do that. I’ve been searching my dictionaries of knit stitches, trying to find a perfect balance between fancy-enough-for-grandma and not-so-complex-I-give-up. I have a few ideas. A few.