Last week sort of sucked. In the middle of the suckiness of it all, I decided that I didn’t want to cook or eat another goddamned leaf. I sent Dale out to the snooty market up the road for a wood-fired oven-baked wild mushroom and smoked mozzarella pizza (to be more accurate, I asked him nicely if he would please go pick up said pizza). Oh my god it was good, especially with my beloved Lagunitas IPA. I love pizza. I love beer. Oddly enough, I did not gain 15 pounds. I am however stuck at my current weight. I am blaming the pizza and beer, rather than my lack of exercise.
Rather than go on about all the healthy things I’ve eaten lately, I’ll tell you all the devil-incarnate snacks I’ve managed to turn down: Boston cream pie, chocolate peanut butter cupcake, everything else in the Starbucks case, chicharrones, Aussie bites, more pizza, more beer. Not that I’ve been keeping track.
I think the intrusion of sucky life events and maybe the Giants’ slump has left me feeling a little blah. I don’t really feel like cooking. I feel like lying on my back in the middle of the yard with a beer. Doesn’t that sound awesome?
Also, it’s time to get the garden going, and every year I look out at the beds and feel overcome with gopher anxiety. I literally dread putting seeds in the ground. If you have ever watched an entire cornstalk disappear into a hole or looked at a completely wilted chard plant that was perfectly perky 3 hours earlier, then you know what I’m talking about. I feel like I am consigning these poor innocent starts to death by rapacious rodent.
So, I am trying to figure out what to cook for dinner tonight. It’s going to have to include spinach, because I bought too much last week. Salmon? Quinoa? Take out?