Monday, March 24, 2008
Sunday Supper: No Bunnies Were Killed
I live in a house of men. Not a bad thing when you love men as much as I do. But sometimes I look around the table and wonder, "How did it come to this?" I'm middle-aged, for God sake. With roommates. Who'd have imagined I'd go from doctor's wife with big house on the hill to struggling writer living on a bluff. With men. In trees. Wearing boxers and bathrobes. Scratching.
Fortunately, these guys know their way around the kitchen. And grill. Which I could never manage what with those big, shooting flames. So Easter dinner was a nice, simple meal of turkey roasted on the grill, sweet potatoes, salad and asparagus. Fortunately, we found The Chef wandering around town a bit disoriented, so we threw him in the back of the truck and brought him home. He happened to be carrying a bottle of Prosecco and a Flora Springs Cabernet so that was a pretty easy mercy pick-up. For dessert, a fluffy tiramisu, of which only a cup or so of the mascarpone and egg custard ended up on the floor. Men are very messy.
So why live with a handful of men if you're only sleeping with one of them and no, you're not in graduate school anymore? Well, the view of the lighthouse from the dining room is pretty nice. And I never have to wash the car. Or lift anything heavy. Sweet.