She had the brilliant idea of making a curry. The night before she had made a delicious angel hair pasta full of summer squash and broccoli from her oh-so-urban farm share that she had picked up at the local food co-op. Not the super close, tiny co-op, but the bigger co-op with the world's worst parking lot. The pasta was a success, and there was some leftover, but she was hoping to use the Swiss chard that had added some lively color to her farm share. Either not remembering how to prepare the veg from the last time she got it, or perhaps it was one of the veggies that sat at the bottom of her crisper knowing that it had come to moldy, mushy demise, she posted a query on facebook, asking her foodie friends what does one do with Swiss chard? Although at first balking at using the term "foodie" since her time at Cafe Corazon where she heard the most hipster bridal party ever discuss the term, and the ramifications of calling oneself a foodie, and what exactly that subculture entails, she decided to throw caution to the wind! Hipster wedding party be damned, because seriously, who uses the phrase "mobile application" when talking about an app. You shut up right now.
So a slew of ideas came in regarding the Swiss chard, but all required her to go to the store and spend more money (she was ever-trying to be on a budget). Upon browsing the interwebs, she figured she could saute it up like spinach and call it a day. She had a jar of simmer sauce, and a bin of leftover veg. She would feel oh-so-British making a curry and drinking her cheap wine.
Cheap wine doesn't actually have anything to do with being British, but she thought it sounded better. She actually DID have fancy wine, but was saving it for an oh-so-spesh night that had yet to be named.
Or she would re-gift it for some other person's oh-so-spesh event that had yet to be named. She was at that age where people (the straight ones) were getting hitched and breeding. And not necessarily in that order.
Her garden had become unruly. And we're not talking about her lady-parts hair. She had put off weeding because of. Well because of school, and then a conference presentation which she totally balked, but met some cool dudes at, and then general laziness, and then vacation, and then well. Here she is. Late June, and just tending to her jungle of a front yard.
She considered herself an indoor kid. "Go play outside," her mom would always say, but she liked hanging out inside, reading, mostly. But she must have attained her grandma's green thumb, because gardening was something she enjoyed, and something she was rather good at, when she tried. Just like her academic career! Who knew she would take an interest in post-apocalyptic/rapture films and be able to talk about them AND receive a decent grade on said paper. People told her she was smart but it's not the same as receiving validation in letter form in the school's online grading apparatus. Perhaps gardening would be her skill during World War Z. That or a dog whisperer.
Although channeling her grandmother's green-thumb, she became the quintessential Milwaukee old-man. Her transistor radio turned to WTMJ 620, and Bob Uecker's voice cracking wise at the end of the no-hitter in the middle of the first (which was one of her favorite jokes), she took to pulling weeds, by hand and discovering a patch of basil and some chives. While her grandmother had a penchant for flowers, Lily of the Valley was always a favorite, she found she was much better at growing vegetables.
She was excited at the prospect of pesto because the basil was ridiculously large and in charge, and she questioned whether or not it was a perennial. But then she remembered at the previous residence, the one she had let go into foreclosure because her ex decided to skip town with the car and leave her with the credit card bills and the house and all other bills accordingly, that the tomatillos reseeded themselves as well. TOMATILLOS! Nature is a weird and grand thing.
So she finished today's weeding. She had run out of yard-waste bags and decided it was time for a shower and to do some laundry. In the mean time, she would start boiling the water/rice mixture for her curry that she was sure to be delicious.
As she entered her basement she couldn't help but think of her friend she had just visited in LA. A native Angelino, she was fascinated by the Midwest's grand (and cheap!) abodes and spacious basements. She was excited for her to come out and look at this one that was complete with a little room to store canned goods or things that one puts up. She already missed their daily praise brunches although got a late brunch with today's gossip via Facebook chat and a Tame Impala soundtrack.
Upon entering the kitchen after her excursion into her basement, she realized the rice was boiling already, checking the instructions on the bag of jasmine rice (yes she needed instructions of how to make rice), she reduced the heat to a simmer, covered the pot, and proceeded to put away her clean duds.
Something smelled good in her house, and she thought maybe it was something on the gas stove that was being lit on fire; a piece of errant pasta, a popcorn kernel, a floret of broccoli. Who knew. She wasn't the most fastidious of people (but please, she wasn't a slob either). But the scent soon turned malicious. Burning.
"The rice!" She stated to no one but her two retired racing greyhounds who were both sleeping on their respective dog beds. They had gone for a walk around noon and they were still tired from it six hours later.
Upon checking the rice, her worst fears were confirmed. The rice had burned. "Seriously?" She said. "I burned the rice? Is this a fucking joke?" But it wasn't a joke. She had burned the rice.
