I take a lot of frozen meals to work.
They don’t usually taste too bad, and depending on the brand (and sodium…sigh), they’re relatively healthy. They’re quick to pack and relatively quick to prepare, especially after sitting in the fridge all morning long.
Because of that sitting, though, the directions on the package don’t work for me. When the package says to cook 3 minutes, I may only need to cook it 1-1/2. It’s a guessing game, and I’m an awful guesser.
So as I was studying this package of Swedish Meatballs for the suggested time and contemplating how to convert it into sorta-thawed-out time, I did a double-take on number 3:
Pull back film and stir macaroni & cheese.
(And not because of the inconsistency of the conjunction usage, either. ;)
What? Macaroni and cheese?
I actually turned the box over and made sure I was preparing to prepare what I thought I was preparing to prepare.
July 2006. I was very pregnant with Atticus, who was born in September of that year.
Ryan, Lucas, and I rode down 86 into North Carolina, past Yanceyville, where Kevin was working in the prison, to Shangri-La.
Lucas was almost two years old; Ryan was 13. It was a pretty fun, but hot, afternoon, if memory serves. Lucas was so excited about the little stone buildings that it took Ryan and me both to keep him off them.
I remember going there years and years ago with my mom and dad.
The man who built it was so nice; he would come out and show off his miniature masterpiece, enjoying the company of people who stopped to admire it.
Since he died, the place changed hands, the buildings aren’t kept up like they used to be.
And the new owners didn’t seem to care much for visitors. (I guess I should be thankful they didn’t call the law on us.) They made their presence known but didn’t come out to chat.
I saw this fantastic room divider in someone’s basement recently. It looks like old glass, bottle-green, like it should be in an antique parlor with fringed lampshades and Louis XV settees and chaise lounges in red mohair.