Just because I know you want to see where the magic happens, a gratuitous picture of my stove:
Doesn't it look just like something out of a cooking show? The flickr version of that photo has mouseover notes, because I'm nerdy like that. The can of Sprite on the right end, which has Arabic writing on it, came from Kenya. We were on safari in the Masai Mara, and we stopped at this gas station that was in the middle of the savannah, a gas station whose literally only business was gassing up safari vans. The gas station was one room, with a little counter and a guy to take your money, and they had two additional products for sale: Sprite and bottled water. There was a wall of each, bottles stacked to the ceiling, labels facing out. It was incredibly surreal. I wish I had taken a picture. [I didn't because I made a really, really concerted effort not to walk around Kenya with a camera attached to my hand. Unlike my approach to my normal life actually.] However I did buy two cans, one to drink and one to bring home.
I made a casserole for supper using some leftover pasta and sauteed zucchini and mushrooms. Zucchini is my new favourite thing. I can't wait for summer and the farmer's market when I will buy 1,000 of them and make them into bread and cookies and grate them up and freeze them. Next I am going to try some recipes from Amy Sedaris' entertaining book, I Like You. I don't know what's going on. I've gone crazy. So if you are the guy described in the title of this post, call me. (Note: from the 50s, not in your 50s. 'Cause ew.)
Should you find a surfeit of such men, care to send one on my way? I think being a 1950s housewife was precisely what I designed to do.
ReplyDeleteSure, if I get more than one application I'll refer one to you. I'm sending you whichever one seems more misogynistic, though.
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