On Friday morning I was stung by a wasp and basically now I know the pain of childbirth.
I was home sick on account of a cold. The Beast was out on a bike ride. I went up to the deck to read. I put up the umbrella, and placed my hand directly on top of the fucker, and its stinger pierced that fleshy part of my palm, right between my thumb and index finger.
Sunday was this blog’s fifth year anniversary. The Beast and I had talked about marking it by going out for dinner–there are so many places I want to take him, like Patria, and so many places neither of us has been, like Bar Isabel–but the truth is, we’ve grown accustomed to staying in on Sunday nights. The Beast works 10 to 7 and doesn’t get home until 8 and I usually have the day to myself and crave a little time in the kitchen, so it makes sense to stay in. And besides, it’s our time, like the Goonie’s time was down in those grottos looking for treasure so their parents wouldn’t have to sell their houses.
For some inexplicable reason, we both had panzanella–an Italian grilled bread and tomato salad–on our respective minds. And since the corner green grocer had some lovely Ontario basil, field tomatoes and cucumbers available, it was a no-brainer. The protein, on the other hand, was to be debated. Via text the Beast requested a “Tuscan bean salad”. But the only options I gave him were sausage or fish. He texted back “sausage” but I’d already bought the fish, a beautiful piece of halibut and another of steelhead trout.
We’d just come back from a beautiful Saturday visit with my mom, where the cover of her current issue of Chatelaine made me eager to make a fruit galette. So I whipped up the pastry, which marked the first time in a long time I’ve made pastry without having trouble rolling it out.