Sunday, July 30, 2006

Nub, nub, nub

Simons and I are singing to our dog, drawing a building detail, watching Grey’s Anatomy and eating Lik-em-aid. Well, technically, only one of us is drawing some library in Paris, and that person is too sophisticated for Fun Dip. Isn’t that just too pretentious for words?

Our dog is hogging the couch, despite the fact that she is too exhausted to go eat her food. Our dog is broken. Maybe she is defective. We need a new dog. This one can't move even when I poke her like this...and this...nope, not even now.

In addition to not writing thank you notes for the sixth weekend in a row, yours truly did not run the designated 14 miles this morning. Instead, I slept off my hangover until almost noon, ate breakfast and then spent the rest of the afternoon frolicking at Botany Bay and drinking cold Budweiser. Consequently, I feel like it’s 5000 degrees thanks to Earth’s yellow sun baking me into one of those fry-type things you put on green bean casserole. I’m not burnt exactly...but damn am I ever hot.

Why was I hungover, do you ask? Because Simons and I made the most sumptuous supper ever last night for four friends. Every single weekend during one couple’s engagement, we were too tied up with our own wedding nonsense to throw them a party (they were only engaged about two months, so it really was hard). So we threw them a dinner party. One friend flew in from San Diego, and Simons’ best friend came too. Well, to be fair, the San Diego person was coming into town anyway, but didn’t it sound better to say someone flew across the country for my cooking? I think so too.

Here was the menu:
Cold butterbean soup with crème fraiche, truffle oil and curried salmon quoinelles
Roasted tomato tart with fresh herbs and parmesan
Grilled wahoo with mango salsa, rice with cocoanut milk and green beans
Mini berry pies with lime curd and lemon rosemary sorbet

Simons' friend brought us habaneros and some other peppers from his garden, which originally came from seeds that grew in my dad's garden, which originally grew in China or South Africa or Chile, or some other country with hot peppers that my dad has poached them from. But we sliced them in half and squeezed our limes into them and then poured them over the fish and rice. You wouldn't think it would make such a difference, but it did! HOT!

Here are the berry tarts. They were in the latest Gourmet. Aren’t they pretty? I had to cut them out with a cookie cutter, bake them, and then rub them in sugar and blowtorch them with my new implement of destruction. I bet they don’t make one of those in pink, Bitches! My sweet husband actually went out and bought me propane (or was it butane...anyway, it wasn't acetylene) so I could blowtorch the dessert.

It was the loveliest party. We all sat out on the screened in porch, while thunderstorm after thunderstorm rolled in, so the lighting was very exciting. We also had the hurricane lanterns out, and it was dark and romantic. Simons and I pulled out half the wine we bought on our honeymoon, because what better time to drink it? And who wants to drag all that across the country again anyway?

In the name of nub! One touch in the name of nub...

So wine + wine + wine + champagne = hangover. It was the second day in a row for poor Simons. We went to the Ryan Adams concert (see how 1985 I am? Everyone else says “show.” I stick with “concert.”) and out to Raval afterwards. He didn’t want me to leave, so he kept sneaking off to the bar whenever my drink would get low and buy me another so I’d have to finish it. Waste not, want not, I always say. Anyhoo, his little ploy backfired, because he was still barfing at 1:00 the next day, while I was fit as a fiddle after sucking back a Gatorade and taking a dip in the ocean. I had to go grocery shopping, vacuum, mop, cook and do the dishes and laundry, and do it quietly, so the moaner in the bedroom wouldn’t start spinning again. A friend popped over for breakfast at about noon, and in the middle of eggs and turkey bacon, he pushed back from the table and went screaming off to the potty. And I do mean screaming. Is anyone else a loud vomiter? Um, isn’t there anything y’all can do about that? Because that shit ain’t right. I can puke silently into a Dixie cup if I have to, and I have always sort of felt, that the quieter you do it, the less likely it will take over your life and force you to do it again and again and again. I am the Zen Vomiter. “Here is my body vomiting. But Me, I am floating here in my happy place, far away.”

Sweet Mary-Lou...I’m so in nub with youuuu!!!

Holy fuck, Simons' brother's dog farted. I’m outty. No fucking good deed goes unpunished. This is the last time I volunteer to take care of a giant smelly dog who farts.


Alexandrialeigh said...

"...screaming off to the potty." You just made me giggle out loud.

And also? I hope you do not sincerely mean that about the dogs and the farting, because Murphy is so looking forward to seeing you this weekend.

Marcheline said...

Nub? What's with nub? For that matter, what the heck IS nub? I tried reading it as "bun" spelled backwards, but that made even less sense.

Is it some magical word used by people who have actually found a way to obtain creme fraiche? I thought that stuff only existed on the Food Network.

barbie2be said...

your dinner party sounds lovely... i wish we could cook together sometime!

i was about to make a post about how wine always give me a terrible hangover but i can do tequila til the cows come home and not have a hangover the next day. and that's not necessarily a good thing because it apparently turns me into a big old alcoholic slut... :) but i mean that in the best possible way.

Jemima said...

Alcoholic sluts are the best kind! And I'll be out in your neck of the woods soon enough. Come cook something.

barbie2be said...

you got it! maybe you can help me steal... er, borrow Holly's pink kitchen aid mixer!