Sunday, July 14, 2013
I managed a bare 4400 steps today and did 12 flights of steps. Frankly, I feel like I've been hit with a bat; it felt like I moved much more than that! I may try doing the entire yoga video tonight, rather than just the 30 minute warm-up. Husband is home, he can corral Leon for a while. They can male-bond up in the mancave while Hattie and I pursue serenity, or something.
The pork loin was really good, nice and pink and juicy. We ate supper like adults at the table, with real plates and actual flatware. There was slaw and watermelon, too. It was far, far nicer than perching at the computer with yet another box of takeout!
The Great Pork Loin Adventure has made me aware of a lot of things. I had to hunt to find my folder of recipes, and once I did find it, I was struck by the memories of all the things I used to make and take places. I really am a good cook. It gives me pleasure to make good food. Taking chicken salad and shrimp dip to the parish hall, feeding my husband's co-workers and gamer buddies gumbo, making my daddy's German chocolate cake for the breakroom and watching it vanish by the end of the shift, carrying my mama's potato salad to family reunions. Those were very happy times. And I haven't done anything at all since we moved up here, basically for 2 years. I have no idea where my cast iron skillet is, can't find the blades for my Kitchen-Aid, my sourdough starter is long-gone, and I don't even have my good Japanese knives.
This shall not stand. Somewhere in all these boxes, there is a kickass kitchen. I'm going to get this fixed. My sourdough starter had a name, he was Hercule. His little white bucket had his name written on the side, and that bucket is somewhere. That and my knives are going to be sitting on my counter come this time tomorrow, and they're going to be ready for business.
No one is going to make me happy. No one is going to make sure I do the things that I enjoy. That goes for exercise and going places, and that goes for cooking, too.