For starters, hubs just told me that he broke the Cardinal Rule of laundry doing: don't mix colors and whites, especially NEW colors and whites. As such, these previously gleaming baseball pants are now...
vaguely pink. People, seriously!? I love pink. The boys love pink. But Nats pants are NOT supposed to be pink on Day 2 of camp. On the day of the Nationals stadium visit. Or ever.
Hubs says he's going to remedy this situation. I told him he best do that because I cannot add one additional shouldn't-be-necessary item to my list. He said "BLEACH!," like that simple word, said loudly and clearly, should assuage my concern. I replied, "Who washes new red jerseys and socks with white pants? Jesus H, Man, have you learned nothing in your 36 years?"
Secondly, for most of my more than 36 years, I have A) been mildly alarmed by the Gene Wilder version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and B) certain that the greedy girl who turns blue and blows up like a fat blueberry was named Veruschka Salt. Mother of god, her name is Veruca Salt. VERUCA?! Hubs says that in Latin, "veruca" means wart. Why does he know this? Probably because he mixes new reds and whites in a washing machine.
I didn't even bother questioning him about the veracity of his claim because my hubs is always right about the most random of trivia. It's infuriating at times, especially during Trivial Pursuit. Honest to god, some of his knowledge gives new meaning to the word "trivial" and the pursuit of it.
I said aloud the name Veruschka Salt because I spent literally 7 hours today running errands and then was hell bent on cooking. The first must-do was to deal with the dried garbanzos I'd put to soak yesterday morning, so eagerly anticipating a large batch of Yotam's hummus. I made that. I am glad.
Then I dealt with twelve of the 21 cups of blueberries I had by making the BB-Grand Marnier jam, though I first had to remove this guy who'd moved into my canning pot.
Whilst finally making said jam, one of my very best college friends, seriously one of my favorite people ever, called to tell me that he'd gotten married over the weekend. I A) stopped concentrating on the jam, and B) demanded to know how many people were in attendance at this wedding because C) I was going to be extremely peeved if it weren't small (read: I wasn't invited).
Fortunately for him and his beautiful wife, only sixteen close family members were present for this somewhat last-minute ceremony and equally fortunately, he assured me that of course after twenty years of mutually devoted friendship I am on the short list. At that point I remembered the jam which was, at that point, pillowing madly in the pot. I hurried to can it and while it's quite good, it's a bit looser than I'd like. Blueberry-Grand Marnier sauce, I tell you. Meant to make it all along.
It's 7:30 and T walks in, a full thirty minutes before I expected him. I'm talking to my friend, beseeching hubs not to eat Indian leftovers because steaks are coming and hurriedly turning on the oven. This is all before the ridiculous pink pants episode. I toss some purple majestics (potatoes) with some oil, garlic, saffron and mint. I season the filets with my super-duper steak rub. I tell hubs to wash and spin the kale while I smash garlic, mint and salt in my mortar.
Miraculously, things came together (though I took the damn potatoes out too early; go microwave) and we supped in relatively calm fashion. A generous pour of a fine Rioja I bought today hurt nothing.