It’s Friday night (at least where I am). I should be out gallivanting with a bunch of sexy, young things, but here I am, glued to my computer, sucking down glasses of cheap red wine and wishing for a man named Jean Louis to bust through my front door and whisk me away to his private corner of France. (Dreams are free, right?) I ate a cheese quesadilla from the local Mexican joint and three tortilla chips for dinner tonight. I had to nuke the quesadilla to reconstitute the coagulated cheese, but otherwise it was as advertised: hot cheese between a large tortilla, folded upon itself. Sound sexy yet? That’s because it wasn’t. But at least it wasn’t fried to a burnt crisp, as is the house specialty. (The waitress no doubt heard my voice in the background shrieking,”NOT FRIED! NOT FRIED!” I apologize to you, waitress, whoever you were.) I’d spent all day trying to wipe a certain miniature music player of all its music, then reloading said music. I was done. We called the Mexican place, put in an order, and dinner transported to our plates at home. Like magic, only way more delicious.
Have I mentioned that Hot Cheese is my stripper name?
I can’t help but wonder what’s going on in kitchens around the States (at least) right now. Many of my foreign counterparts are stuffed thickly into bars or fast asleep at this moment, but in America, it’s Friday night and TG for I. What’re you cookin’ up?