Woops!

Last night I was so bored that I actually sat down to watch "Mr. Magorium's Magic Emporium" It is a strange film. About one hour into it I was completely asleep. This seems to be my pattern lately--boredom to sleep. What I need is a good, gripping book. But whenever I go to the library it is constant work to keep EZ from pulling down every book at his eye level, while the cranky teen-aged librarian mutters annoyances left and right. "Mess..." "Takes forever to clean up...."

Generally boredom leads, for me, to creative cooking. However, I have lately (and, hopefully, temporarily) lost the drive to make late-night goodies. Plus, I have had some interesting cooking mishaps over the last little while.

One morning, several weeks ago, Aaron called me and told me that he forgot that he was supposed to provide the "birthday treat" for a coworker that day. "No problemo," I thought. HY and I will whip up something gorgeous to showcase our excessive domestic talents and WOW the girls in the office. (Oh yeah, and EZ can help too.)

I decided to make individual chocolate tarts. But I didn't want to just fill some pie dough with chocolate pudding and call it good. Yuck. So I spent the morning tweaking a brownie/cookie recipe to fit in as tart dough. Then the boys and I scoured the local grocery haunt for decent chocolate that we could temper in heavy cream. The idea was to come up with something between ganache and chocolate whipped cream (a very light mousse, if you will) that we could pipe into our tart shells.

Well, like every single time that I cook to impress and act all "I'm such an oustanding gourmet," something went very very wrong. We had to have the tarts at Aaron's office by 3:00 p.m. At 2:35 I had the cooled chocolate cream whipping away in the mixer while I grated fine chocolate into beautiful velvety shreds. The next thing I know, HY walks out naked from the bathroom requesting some help with the Charmin portion of his toilette..and I hear EZ splashing away in the soiled toilet water. Ugh.

It turns out that while Mom was busy tempering chocolate, HY went to the bathroom then popped off the toilet to sit on the edge of the bathtub to play with a toy (effectively soiling the shower curtain that was in the way, and allowing EZ ample opportunity to splash away to his little heart's content.)

A round of disinfectant later, I returned to the kitchen to find chocolate butter in the mixer. Yes, I had over-beaten the cream, which had separated into unappealing little balls of chocolate flavored butter. I COULD HAVE DIED. It was now about 2:50 p.m. and I was supposed to be filling little tart shells, but, instead, I was staring at chocolate butter wondering what in the world I was going to do with it.

In the end, I melted some of the chocolate butter and tried to pour some of it over solid chocolate pieces in the tart shells, then cover them in whipped cream and cocoa powder.

I was so embarassed about the whole thing that I made Aaron come out into the parking lot to get them instead of bringing them in myself.

On Love

To my Dear and Loving Husband

If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye woman, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the east doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor aught but love from thee, give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay,
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let's so perservere
That when we live no more, we may live ever.

Ann Bradstreet

----

In an attempt to de-clutter the garage as of late, I have been thumbing through notebooks of correspondence between Aaron and me before we got married. There are literal reams. I keep thinking that one day all of these letters and notes will be a treasure to future generations in testimony of a great love story. But to me, reading it leaves me with a wealth of conflicting emotions.

One is almost akin to embarassment--like reading entries from your junior high diary, where you felt much but understood little. Another is a surge of nostalgia for the heady days of love unrequited, few serious responsibilities, and, let's be honest, the bloom of physical youth. (Did I mention there are several pictures accompanying these letters--I was a babe!) Not that I'm not still "youthful" as far as age goes, but the bloom does seem slightly tarnished. (And being seven months pregnant probably adds to my woebegone feeling.)

In reading over it all, you can practically feel the drama. Each page literally drips with tension, kindness, hopefulness, anticipation, admiration, and humor. It leaves me wondering if the very ardent expressions of affection belied in these notes really capture the essence of genuine love, and, if so, do I still feel it to the same degree. (Or am I exploring the inevitable surge of irrational emotions that accompany the last trimester of pregnancy a tad too much...)

When I think about it...I almost think that, though it's not captured on paper for posterity, there is more genuine love in our relationship now--captured in small moments like the satisfaction of working together on the yard on Saturday and falling asleep, exhausted, but holding hands.