Thank god for lesbians. You know what I’m saying?
I was all set to cook and photograph and eat and write this weekend. The weather had a little nip. I had plans. Cheese was purchased, the better to be made into apple-sharp cheddar muffins with maple glaze. Potatoes were purchased, destined for a spinach and bacon and hazelnut and comtè-filled gratin.
Then the head cold descended. And now I can’t be bothered to stand in front of a stove and poach yukon golds in heavy cream, let alone double check which way the accent mark goes in “comtè.”
Luckily, my good friend Barbara, while getting a massage with her wife Bridget on Friday, was seized by a sudden vicious craving for roast pork; lesbians are great for things like that. Even better, she decided to make a big ol’ old-fashioned Sunday dinner, with mashed potatoes and glazed carrots and braised cabbage and leeks and apple crisp with vanilla ice cream. There were CLOTH NAPKINS, and we are talking about people who count themselves lucky if the milk has only been sitting out for 4 or 5 hours before they remember to put it back into the fridge.
And best of all, she invited us. Because she is my good friend, and therefore knows well my relationship with pork.
And I went and I ate and I photographed (only these two, because pushing the button on the camera was surprisingly energy sapping in my weakened state, so thank the lord they’re partway decent). And I now consider my weekend’s vow fulfilled.
Also: A million thanks to Claudia and Peter for holding down the fort with remarkable aplomb and well-placed profanities.