She must be a witch.
She's incredible. The things she does with apples. It's astounding, beautiful, makes me weep with gratitude.
I walked in the door tonight at six. I was a little late and a little early at once. Tuesday nights are a television house party night in our apartment. Tuesday evening is also my local writers' bloc get-together. One of our regular members departed this fair state for an earthquake-prone state, another now works late, and another now works insane hours. As the only other five o'clock regular, I decided I didn't want to get home even later than usual, skipped the bloc, and left work half an hour late to head home.
Did my wife have dinner on the table?
Of course not. That would require preparation.
I didn't notice at the time, though. I just noticed the incredible aroma of cinnamony-apple-goodness. I could smell the pounds as they crept around my belly when I took those first few steps in the door.
Sharlotka. I'd never had it before. Oh, it was wonderful to gaze upon it as she removed it from the oven and slid the casserole for dinner in. The darling wife informed me that the anglicized name is Apple Charlotte. I later searched carefully, but there weren't any spiders in there.
My wife has this knack for cooking. I'd never really experienced the midwestern art of "casserole". I'm not sure how she does it, but I've not yet duplicated one. Even when she writes down the ingredients, I end up with a sentient mush that screams when I microwave it.
Yeah, that's kind of cool.
But it's not edible.
Anyway, I suspect the wife is fattening me up. She fed me the last of my birthday cheesecake, a little bit of her sharlotka with ice cream, and a bit of the tomato-bean-corn-cheese casserole. So much starch, so much fat, so much sugar. I think I'll walk home tomorrow. I won't have her turning me into the Thanksgiving roast turkey.
I walked in the door tonight at six. I was a little late and a little early at once. Tuesday nights are a television house party night in our apartment. Tuesday evening is also my local writers' bloc get-together. One of our regular members departed this fair state for an earthquake-prone state, another now works late, and another now works insane hours. As the only other five o'clock regular, I decided I didn't want to get home even later than usual, skipped the bloc, and left work half an hour late to head home.
Did my wife have dinner on the table?
Of course not. That would require preparation.
I didn't notice at the time, though. I just noticed the incredible aroma of cinnamony-apple-goodness. I could smell the pounds as they crept around my belly when I took those first few steps in the door.
Sharlotka. I'd never had it before. Oh, it was wonderful to gaze upon it as she removed it from the oven and slid the casserole for dinner in. The darling wife informed me that the anglicized name is Apple Charlotte. I later searched carefully, but there weren't any spiders in there.
My wife has this knack for cooking. I'd never really experienced the midwestern art of "casserole". I'm not sure how she does it, but I've not yet duplicated one. Even when she writes down the ingredients, I end up with a sentient mush that screams when I microwave it.
Yeah, that's kind of cool.
But it's not edible.
Anyway, I suspect the wife is fattening me up. She fed me the last of my birthday cheesecake, a little bit of her sharlotka with ice cream, and a bit of the tomato-bean-corn-cheese casserole. So much starch, so much fat, so much sugar. I think I'll walk home tomorrow. I won't have her turning me into the Thanksgiving roast turkey.