A little too much Shiraz. You know. A little too much is when you end up with heavy eyelids, lying in bed fully clothed. That's less than just enough, which is when you end up with heavy eyelids, lying in bed naked with someone you just met.
I promised myself that when I settled into my new place, I would cut the shenanigans and start cooking again. The Fafrican psychic said my grandmother is sending me a message from the Great Beyond, saying that to keep myself healthy I need to cook. I knew the voice telling me to put down the Mission Burrito and hit the stove was coming from somewhere.
I know how much pressure to put on myself, and cooking isn't going to happen three times a day, but I can do 4-5 nights a week.
I'm no gourmet -- I mean look, I cook in a cow skillet --
but I can turn out a decent meal. Plus, I have hours upon hours of training from watching Food TV, which is where I found out how to make a wine reduction, which translated to me as heating only as much wine as you can spare for only as long as you can remain vertical while imbibing the rest of the bottle. With wine who doesn't love to cook?
With the addition of a little garlic, olive oil, lemon, and light seasonings, I turned out some of the best salmon I've ever made. Didn't hurt that it was one of those 75-dollar-a-pound cuts from Whole Foods. (Oh, Trader Joe's, how I yearn for your low-priced goodness.)
It's fall. I love orange. What better than a baked yam? Pat some butter. Drizzle some maple syrup. Salt 'n pepper. Throw her inside a fine-workin' oven.
Dinner was very tasty (the mysterious white lump on the salad is feta cheese. Delicious. Not photogenic).
Now I'm going to stumble back to bed. I'll dig up some PJs when the wine takes its leave.