Do you remember how a couple of weeks ago I said that I was making my own cheese? Well, it was very difficult and low-yielding, but tasty. Last night I got to debut the mozzarella and some of my fresh basil (the one plant I’ve managed to keep alive, by some miracle that I cannot explain), and they were a hit. Probably because I put that ancient balsamic on there, and that stuff is made of the tears of angels or something. It’s ridonkulous. We had a friend of Chris’s over for dinner, so I was okay whipping out some of the bigger guns. I also served teensy crackers with a soft french cheese that had garlic and chives in it. I don’t, as a rule, eat soft cheese. I think it’s ucky. But this was really savory and not at all pus-like, so rock on!
Speaking of rocking: Here is a picture of the two boys really bringing it home, so to speak. The one on the left is my Chris, and the one on the right is his buddy, a pulmonologist. We all ended up getting so plastered on pinot grigio and cherry vodka that the pulmonologist barfed all over our stairs. It just finished being deep cleaned, and I’ll tell you: grown-ass, professional, intelligent men are still endearingly frat-like when drunk. And their puke is still revolting. So I had to call “not it” on the cleaning portion of the competition. Poor Chris. He’s an abused man.
I did manage to put together some pretty good eats through my haze of fermented, grapey goodness. Chicken marsala with artichokes and baby bella mushrooms over spaghetti with a side of haricots verts that were sauteed with prosciutto.
Be still, my beating heart. This is one of my most favorite meals of EVER. I love to order it out, I love to make it, I want to bathe in its silky goodness. Except right now, when I want to bathe in the salty terribleness of Ramen noodles instead, because I am very hung over. The kind of hung over where you wake up and throw up–in the toilet, because one of the things I learned while I was NOT in medical school was the appropriate portion of the house in which to vomit.