In a perfect world, every Sunday morning would start with a clean house and a few racks of cookies cooling on the counter. The smell of baked goods wafting through the rooms, mixed with a whiff of lemony cleaning fluid every now and again. I would potter around, reading the papers, sitting in the sun. Then, after I finished the papers and had plenty of time to take a refreshing shower, one or more friends would come over to share the cookies with me.
In the real world, I spent this whole Sunday morning running around my apartment like a madwoman, clearing away weeks’ worth of stuff strewn about, sloshing blue chemicals around the toilet bowl and bumping into things with the vacuum cleaner. The sun was shining, but I had no time to do something as frivolous as sit down, because there were counter tops to clean and a floor to scrub. By studiously ignoring yesterday’s unread papers, I managed to get the place presentable, and even bake some cookies, before a friend and her little girl were due. Like every good guest, she was a little late, so I dragged myself out onto the balcony for a breather.
Forty minutes later, I was getting worried. I had applied the mascara I didn’t think I’d have time for, read three chapters in a truly fluffy (but oh so entertaining) book and even changed my outfit. Still, my friend had yet to arrive. So I checked my planner and discovered I needn’t have risked slipping a disk to get the floor ready in time, because we had agreed to meet an hour later than I thought. Right.
Well, I had a clean house and a plate of cookies (plus an excellent time with the two beautiful women who came to visit). It was just half a day later, and in more haste, than in a perfect world. Although, if I’m honest, the cookies and cleanliness probably felt even better for the hard work I’d put into them. Also, it made for a great excuse later in the day, when it was time for dinner, I wanted something delicious, but did not feel like braising the red cabbage I’d bought. It just seemed like too much hassle.
As you might know by now, this is perfectly normal Sunday evening behavior around these here parts. Only this time, I had an excuse so I felt completely justified ringing the pizza guy to bring me a warm pie. Except, I didn’t feel like having pizza. Unusual, but given the suspected number of calories in the feta-egg pizza I have been enjoying, I welcomed the feeling. This did mean, however, that I had no plan for dinner. That is, until I looked at my provisions and added up a can of tomatoes, an onion, a chunk of butter and a few handfuls of dried pasta into the pasta with tomato sauce Molly wrote about over at Orangette a few years ago.
In the real world, I spent this whole Sunday morning running around my apartment like a madwoman, clearing away weeks’ worth of stuff strewn about, sloshing blue chemicals around the toilet bowl and bumping into things with the vacuum cleaner. The sun was shining, but I had no time to do something as frivolous as sit down, because there were counter tops to clean and a floor to scrub. By studiously ignoring yesterday’s unread papers, I managed to get the place presentable, and even bake some cookies, before a friend and her little girl were due. Like every good guest, she was a little late, so I dragged myself out onto the balcony for a breather.
Forty minutes later, I was getting worried. I had applied the mascara I didn’t think I’d have time for, read three chapters in a truly fluffy (but oh so entertaining) book and even changed my outfit. Still, my friend had yet to arrive. So I checked my planner and discovered I needn’t have risked slipping a disk to get the floor ready in time, because we had agreed to meet an hour later than I thought. Right.
Well, I had a clean house and a plate of cookies (plus an excellent time with the two beautiful women who came to visit). It was just half a day later, and in more haste, than in a perfect world. Although, if I’m honest, the cookies and cleanliness probably felt even better for the hard work I’d put into them. Also, it made for a great excuse later in the day, when it was time for dinner, I wanted something delicious, but did not feel like braising the red cabbage I’d bought. It just seemed like too much hassle.
As you might know by now, this is perfectly normal Sunday evening behavior around these here parts. Only this time, I had an excuse so I felt completely justified ringing the pizza guy to bring me a warm pie. Except, I didn’t feel like having pizza. Unusual, but given the suspected number of calories in the feta-egg pizza I have been enjoying, I welcomed the feeling. This did mean, however, that I had no plan for dinner. That is, until I looked at my provisions and added up a can of tomatoes, an onion, a chunk of butter and a few handfuls of dried pasta into the pasta with tomato sauce Molly wrote about over at Orangette a few years ago.
The sauce is ridiculously easy to make. You put a few tablespoons of butter, a peeled and halved onion and a can of tomatoes in a pan, heat the lot and let it simmer for 45 minutes. It is even easier than calling for a pizza, and quicker too, if you are in my part of town. But that’s not the best bit. The best bit is the incredible flavor you get for so little effort. The sauce is rich, earthy and sexy. If that’s possible. It is comforting and uplifting at the same time and makes for a mighty fine ending to a good Sunday.
No comments:
Post a Comment