Tuesday night, and I feel selfish and lazy and wonderfully sleepy. I love a quiet night at home like this, eating a simple dinner of peanut butter on warm toast and zucchini in a tomato-y sauce with onions, capers, and mint. Afterwards I dug into the freezer and came out with half a chocolate gâteau fondant de Nathalie, from which I cut a generous wedge. With a few seconds in the microwave and a cold glass of milk on the side, it was luscious. Dinner alone, if approached willingly, can be the greatest luxury.
But dinner with others is awfully nice too. Sunday night brought Nicho back from the Olympic Hot Springs and to my apartment, where we drank Grant’s Mandarin Hefeweizen and ate the fresh lamb sausages I’d picked up on Saturday with Margot at Uli’s Sausage. We also roasted a halved delicata squash with olive oil and coarse salt, and I made a tomato bread salad with what I’m afraid may be the last of the summer’s heirlooms. We finished things off with the aforementioned chocolate cake, which Nicho put away like a pro, all the while claiming to not be a fan of dark chocolate. He also claimed that he couldn’t remember the Spanish word for “swan” and instead told me that my neck is like a goose’s. He is lovely.
But tonight there’s much to be said for feeling solo and sleepy and still and too full. I almost missed my bus this morning but didn’t, and on this afternoon’s bus I almost didn’t spill a big glug of water down my front but did. David Byrne is doing his loud and exquisite opera number on the stereo. My pinky toes hurt from hoofing around downtown in my ultra-pretty, ultra-pointy black heels.
I’m so predictable.
The dirty dishes are calling.
[Thank you, DB, for the title.]