My Big Fat Greek Meal

So my report on the latest episode of Wendy and Becky's Cooking Night is a couple weeks overdue, but here it is, nonetheless. We decided this time to go Greek. Many Greek dishes use lamb as the meat. Since both Wendy and I like vegetables, we decided to make it a vegetarian night.

Between all the chopping of the vegetables and the various stages of cooking them, this meal took over an hour to prepare. However, candles, wine and Andrea Bocelli made for the perfect ambiance. And the meal was even more enjoyable because of the extra time it took to prepare it.

So here is the final product ...

Ikarian Vegetable Medley
Egg Noodles with Brown Butter and Feta
Touboule

When everything was ready, we had enough food for 12 people. My roommate arrived in time to eat with us, and we still were eating leftovers for days!

Pink in the Park

In honor of my upcoming acquisition of a dog, I would like to post my sister's somewhat infamous essay.

I had an unpleasant encounter with a woman at the park today. While I didn’t say anything clever at the time, I spent the rest of the evening thinking of possible retorts. Here is the story written with all potential responses. You choose your favorite, but be assured that I picked the not-wittiest one each time:

I was playing frisbee with Donkey like I do every night when this woman in a pink shirt walked by with two hideous things on the end of two leashes. Donkey, being the friendly lab that she is, went over to say hello. There was a little bit of sniffing from both parties, and perhaps a yip or two, but nothing hostile – nothing more than natural doggie interaction. Pink, however, was getting unnecessarily flustered over the meeting, and her face was rapidly darkening to match her shirt.

“Ma’am,” she said to me, tangled in leashes and beginning to panic. “Could you please get your dog?”

“Oh, they’re fine,” I replied nonchalantly, failing to see the apparent urgency of the situation. “Donkey’s friendly.”

She looked at me, appalled. “Ma’am,” she said again, condescendingly, “my dogs are five pounds.”

I looked at her and responded:
A) Are you jealous?
B) Congratulations.
C) You call those dogs?
D) Ummm . . . okay.

The dogs continued their interaction, and Pink continued her panic, now bordering on rage.

“Alright, Ma’am,” she said. “That’s it. Either you get your dog or I call the police and tell them it’s not on a leash.”

I looked at her, a bit amused, and said:

A) Yeah, well either you stop being a jerk or I tell my mom on you.
B) Teenagers are getting shot in Wal-Mart and you’re going to call the cops on my pet?
C) Hey, maybe while they’re down here they could help you get that thing out of your butt.
D) nothing. I took Donkey’s collar and walked away in silence.

Of course, being the on-my-feet thinker that I am, I chose D each time. But if I had it to do over again, perhaps things would have turned out a little bit differently.

Sometimes you just need a man.

Okay I'm not normally a very needy single girl. In fact, most of the time, the lack of a man around the house is barely even noticeable. I have a great roommate, lots of good friends (of both genders) and a big family close by to call whenever I need help. Until the Lord decides to bring my husband along, it's usually a great alternative.

There are certain situations, however, when I just can't help but be a girly girl. Tonight, was one of them.

I needed a man. I'm not ashamed to admit it.

Barb and I got home a little before 10 and I decided to get the coffee ready before I headed up to bed. (As a side note, there's not much better than descending the stairs in a sleepy haze and being able to just flip a switch to brew the coffee. Someday perhaps I shall invest in a coffee maker with a timer.) Anyway, I digress. As I finished up with the coffee, I went to throw the old coffee grounds in the trash can, and I noticed a small black piece of trash that had apparently fallen out of the trash can. I leaned down to pick it up and as I was about to grab it, I noticed ... IT HAD A FACE. Two little beady eyes and a nose with some whiskers were staring back up at me. And a rather long tail protruding from the other end.

I jumped backwards, horrified at how close I'd come to grabbing up a MOUSE with my bare hands. I yelled to Barb that there was a mouse and then promptly took refuge on the counter (lest it decide to attack me.) She came down the stairs, but just far enough to look at the thing. And for the next few minutes, we stood there and looked at it, pondering the following:

1. Why is there a mouse in our house? We are not messy ... we do not leave food out. Aren't rodents attracted to food?
2. How did it get inside? There are no apparent openings to the great outdoors.
3. What do we do with it? We don't want it inside, but neither of us wanted to touch it.

It was at this moment that I realized how much I wished there was a man around. Not that he would know exactly how to get rid of the mouse. Or where it came from. Or why it was there in the first place. But I think dealing with unwanted rodents is something that most people would agree is a man's job - a role the husband usually assumes so the wife doesn't have to.

Unfortunately, at this present time of life, I am still waiting on a husband. And until that happens, I pride myself on being pretty capable. So I sucked it up, gathered my courage, and did what any single girl would do in this situation ...

I called my dad.