18 February, 2006

coda to our evening back home

I forgot how nice it is to have a little girl spend the night with Avery!  The sound of little voices saying, "now let's pretend..." and a completely torn-apart bedroom because secretly they've arranged their sleeping quarters on the floor of the guest room, and the complex arrangements of special bears, blankets, being bullied to brush their teeth.  Now they've been tucked in and sung to and kissed goodnight and we can still hear them chattering away.  John says that as he passed their room he heard, "Shh, my daddy's coming."  Who knows.

And I forgot to say that when I put my chicken in the oven, I surrounded it with little cherry tomatoes and wedges of fennel.  Because then, all you have to do after you eat your luscious roast chicken is to throw the entire contents (which means all the parts of the chicken you didn't carve for dinner, plus the juices and tomatoes, and everything) of the foil-lined dish into a stockpot, cover it with water, and simmer high for a good two hours.  Again, you do nothing!  Just wait.  If you pass by and the little bones are sticking up out of the water, add water.  I have always loved the Laurie Colwin (my favorite writer of all time) story of a boyfriend who, while cooking together, asked her what to do with the soup next. When she told him to 'add water to cover,' he asked, "What cover?"  Just goes to show, one person's basic bit of knowledge is another person's coded message.  So I just put the stockpot out the door of our little garden entrance, smelling like absolute ambrosia.  Tomorrow morning I can skim the fat off, heat it again, pour it through a sieve into another pot, add rice, and have dinner.

OK, the girls are slowing down and so am I.  Good night.

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