ramblings


for whatever reason we never seem to finish a meal with out stephanie saving a jar or two of her left overs for what she calls tomorrow's 'lunch'. "i'll have it with my salad", whatever 'it' might turn out to be.
me, i would just as soon toss things. instead we have quite a few little jars amusing themselves mid shelf of the fridge. this is not bad thing, though not my preferred way of doing the kitchen sink. tonight and as of this noting, the fridge holds five small reddish jars under wrap on the third shelf. another three in various red states just below. freezer baggies of yesterday's noodles, small cabbages, mushrooms cuddling up to the reds. i often feel that our fridge is a lair of illicit beds. when a cup of saucy content cuddles to the jar of four meatballs in a midnight's dark, on a coolish bench, way back barely above the crisper, will there be off-spring? does clam marinara have anima for the animus of seven lone shrimp? calling all jam jars, those with red hats, preferred by my love to store what ever didn't make the cut during dinner. hotbeds of food porn, our version of the playboy mansion, bunny hop chicken thighs. against all rules of my strict lutheran upbringing, where food, once left, remaining untouched on that plate, dinner done, desert on the rise, such foods must exit, like the wives  of henry the eighth.
alas, my love, she's a catholic, if for left overs.
hence, tonight, we have re-christened, born again noodles in a flavorful, but double broth, topped with a freezer's petit pois. thank the kitchen gods i had diver's scallops on hand, rolled them in a good dose of sweet, hungarian paprica, with a few splashes of ye old hot sauce, and sea salt, turned out in hazelnut butter, cooked, though just barely through, and finally added to a soup, both of yesterdays kitchen and todays market.
things are well in our kitchen, cabinet and all, sauces mingle, as do we, in an endless dance of what we eat and when, and most certainly, if. we don't starve, wish that we could, just a tad, to gain a new confidence in the reduction of gravity's belly fat. there's yet another thanksgivin' on the abyss. in just about a weeks time, the notions of what, where, when and how, eternal kitchen quests, will have to be answered. grouch, grinch, gremlin, kitchen imp that i am, i don't look forward to the whole thing. and yet i do. i love it. thoroughly so. i dream of fish, fowl, rosy roast beef, the mashed, the smothered, the baked, stewed and rendered, of pies and pigs, 'taters and kale, radish and carrot, eggs, butter and cream. what will it be? i'll never know till the clock strikes ten. there are secrets on this kitchen air, a semblance of music, sounds of tympani and kettle lids, a beguin of the shhhhh, leek melting in butter.
i love the delight, the disbelief stephanie renders, when that dinner is served, if for the two of us. we'll go for a walk hand in hand down the lane before production starts rolling and certainly after, digestion wanting its course. and then its on to the next, is it really just some twenty-five days before christmas?