April 24, 2006

Sundays

Our weekend acted to calm frayed nerves. Friday I rolled chicken breasts around shaved ham, cream cheese, rice and spinach, dunked them in egg and Ritz crackers and baked them for an overall interesting yet average dinner. Saturday we both worked a little over half the day then headed home for the remainder of a Saturday before suiting up with taco dip and Miller Lite for a last poker night with coworkers. Sunday Craig wanted to walk to breakfast, and he's been climbing the walls for pancakes that were recommended at The Hill Cafe in the Church Hill neighborhood north of our building. We didn't eat an actual dinner Saturday night, only appetizers, so my stomach alerted me like a siren first thing Sunday morning that it needed a feeding, enhanced further by the fact that I woke before Craig to read more of Julie Powell's memoir about French food and living in Queens. Her insufferable account of extracting bone marrow, as repulsive as it was, reminded me that I could stand to eat. Well, when we walked around the block to The Hill Cafe, lights were out, and we peered at the glass door just as a finger from inside tapped the torn scrawled sign taped to the door that read in tiny handwriting, We are unable to open today until 11:30. A woman attached to the tapping finger then shoved the door open a crack and stuck her face out to tell us, in these exact words, We're retardedly understaffed today, we won't be opening for another 15 minutes. I think her declaration stunned us into respective silences momentarily but it was quickly decided we would walk to the Monument overlooking Richmond a few blocks over, survey the Sunday crowd at Millie's from atop the hill, and make our decision from there, and this whole time, my stomach was wailing at me. Anyway, after our Sunday stroll and determining Millie's looked too crowded, we wandered back to The Hill Cafe and yay, they were open. Craig ordered the breakfast special instead of pancakes; I experienced my first ever Huevos Rancheros and too much coffee. We snapped photographs of Church Hill for our families, and wandered down the string of old tobacco warehouses turned luxury living, as well. Early afternoon, we returned to the apartment to watch The Ice Harvest (which, in my bland one line review, included a gratuitous amount of strip club settings and overall really wasn't a smart movie). During the movie I began to watercolor my next round of recipe cards. Our next deadline isn't until mid-May but there is no telling what kind of chaos will arise between now and then, so I figured the open Sunday I had should partially involve the creation of those (speaking of which, AB has thanked me profusely for the hand-painted round of cards I sent last week and even indicated that it was the type of thing she'd purchase at a small craft shop in Savannah! She has proudly shown it to MB and will gladly accept future hand-painted recipes, she told me. Thanks for the appreciation, AB!) In this digital day and age, an ounce of hand-craftedness goes a long way. Craig and I threw our leftover hambone in a pot with carrots, celery, onion and yellow split peas to simmer for a few hours: my first experience with split pea soup (Huevos Rancheros and split pea soup all in a day: variety is the spice of life and I do not fear change!) I found myself pleased with the results, and I was happy, too, that this is a recipe passed down through generations of Craig's family. In addition to everything else, I also managed to rummage through a bathroom drawer in the guest bathroom, grab an armful of old bottles of toiletries, line them up on the kitchen counter and announce to Craig, Please pick which of these we can throw out. He complied with my wishes but I still wonder why he felt the need to hang onto that ancient tube of Tinactin, or the expired spray mist of Off that he claimed we would "need for our walks in Central Park." I also deleted half of our silverware from our previously messy silverware drawer and will be boxing up all kitchen goods that cannot find their way to New York City. I spent Sunday bustling, but managed to accomplish far more for a Sunday than usual, and I'm relieved at the flood of motivation that washed over my weekend versus my neverending ability to postpone the inevitable clean-up, sort-through that takes place before a relocation. My thoughts here, following a quick re-read, rattle like a list themselves. It's understandable for all that is happening in this pre-New York City mayhem. Our list is long and running longer. Schedule a road trip to pass off my vehicle to my parents temporarily. Fly to New York for a 2-day apartment hunt. Purchase tickets to my friend's wedding in June. Donate old clothes. Throw out unused tubes of Tinactin. This is not the average Joe move. It's going to require precision and a steady hand.

0 Comments:

<< Home