I’ve started this post. And then started it again. And then started it again. And again. And here I am, still struggling. I kind of just want to delete everything below, and just write, Make this pasta. Tonight. The end.
What I don’t want to do is to write a twee post on how amazing this dish will be. I want to be all, Ok, so we’ve known one another for awhile and you just have to trust me on this, m’kay? Is it delicious and will you want to eat it on a weekly (if not a more frequent) basis? I’m pretty sure once you’ll try it, you’ll answer yes. But do I want to rhapsodise about it and use hyperboles? I’m just not in the mood. Lately, I’ve been feeling very small-d democratic about food, very pedestrian.
In a busy household such as ours, and we’re not even busy-with-kids kind of busy, what I appreciate so much more than having time to test a recipe, is having a homemade dinner with Andrew as often as we can make it happen. Most of the time, we can do it about five days a week. That’s not bad, right? And while I’d prefer to be in the kitchen day in and out cooking for you, I’ve this pesky thing called rent and work has been piling up mountain high. What’s up, summer – aren’t you supposed to be all low and slow?