The other evening, Hubby said something about wanting to ‘make something for dinner’ that he hadn’t had in a while. Well, I wouldn’t want to let an opportunity like that pass me by, so I busied myself with some knitting during the time I’d normally be fretting over and preparing dinner. I did ponder what I might make for myself, since Hubby’s cooking is, well, not always palatable to myself. Let’s just say he enjoys strong and varied flavors.
I tried not to begrudge him a package of precious ground beef, nor a quart of my hard-won frozen tomatoes, as he went to work
trashing the kitchen preparing the meal.
In addition to the beef and tomatoes, there was tomato paste, a can of olives (which were ‘blended’ so finely he had to remind me they were in there), salted pistachios, an onion (diced, but of notable size), some rolled rye flakes, and I’m not sure
I want to know what else.
There were a few tortillas left, and some of us ate it that way, with cheese and sour cream. Others ate it in a bowl with the cheese and sour cream as toppings.
Did you hear that? *I* ate it.
It was edible.
It was… it was delicious.
Maybe we could make a habit out of this, eh?