I stabbed my big toe tonight on the steel blade for the Cuisinart. It’s really not so complicated as it sounds, or else I would explain. The pesto smells luscious, and that’s all that matters.
I’m now taking contributions to buy a roasting pan, dear readers. My birthday is barely over a month away, and I’ll be ringing in the big two-six. 25 was a solid number: a quarter, a silver anniversary, the square of five. But 26 feels round and smooth, full of possibilities for adding, dividing, multiplying. And I’m already behind in the meat-roasting game; women of previous generations would be well on their way to spinsterdom for such shortcomings. I’ve got work to do. I’ve got my eye on an All-Clad roaster in the Williams-Sonoma catalog, but I’ve got to actually get myself to the store and hold the thing in my little hands to know for sure. I think I should have a V-shaped roasting rack to go with. And an instant-read thermometer. And trussing string. And that chicken down the street. Oh, winter! Roasted chicken with Brussels sprouts and chestnuts!
[Thank you, Gertrude Stein, for the title.]