This was in my Bon Appetit this month, and with some changes it turned into our dinner. It’s a blah blah blah something torta rustica. Or something. I’m excited to eat it, but I can’t because Chris is on the phone talking to a co-worker of his. So my plate is sitting in the warm oven, waiting for me to bite into it. I had an apple, but it wasn’t as crisp as I like ’em, so I’m feeling all disappointed. Like I was getting hot and heavy with the apple, it had already put its hands up my shirt and we were getting the room all steamy, and then when I pulled down its apple pants it was all soft and completely incapable of producing any Calvados. Is all I’m saying.
The end result of this situation is that Chris is making faces at me, my dinner is drying out, and I’m starving from killing so many monsters on G.O.W 2. A warrior needs her sustenance. I’m probably building it up too much in my head, since I’ve got a sneaking suspicion it’s going to have a wet bread component that will throw me into a world class depression.
Step 2: I sauteed onion, spinach and roasted red pepper with butter.
Step 3: I chopped up some roasted red peppers.
Step 4: I sauteed some hot turkey sausage.
Step 7: I baked it at 375 F for as long as it took to beat level 5, including the part where Chris kept dying because he was rolling into the razorhail, blithely ignoring the fact that, uh, hi? It’s razorhail. Razorhail KILLS YOUR SHIT.
Step 9: I put it all into the oven so some guy can argue with Chris about whether or not he has depression, even though he called Chris to complain about being depressed. Lord almighty. Get some Wellbutrin, go for a jog, eat some chocolate, and call me in the morning. Preferably after breakfast.