It was a weekend of Halloween madness. The females from class turned drunken sluts. The males, fawning drunks. I managed to march to beat of my own drum, with a full coverage owl costume and the designated driving CR-V. I discovered a leftover pocket bottle of rum in my car yesterday, and the seats still smell of the cigarette smoke imparted by my passengers. And a drunk guy tried to kiss me. Another asked me out but seemed to have forgotten once he was sober.
So I found solace in the kitchen and made French Viniagrette. I'm fairly certain the people whose recipes I default to would have never offered up my hold-on as their signature dish. Beth's salad dressing, Susan's egg burritos, Polly's chili dip, Shannon's cranberry brie pizza, Taryn's corn salsa, my mother's everything. Anyway, the smell of crushed garlic reminds me of Beth and brings comforting memories of good company.
I think there's something to this Day of the Dead thing. I read a TV chef say her family made the favorite foods of departed relatives. I should start celebrating this instead of drunken, costume-y chaos.
So I found solace in the kitchen and made French Viniagrette. I'm fairly certain the people whose recipes I default to would have never offered up my hold-on as their signature dish. Beth's salad dressing, Susan's egg burritos, Polly's chili dip, Shannon's cranberry brie pizza, Taryn's corn salsa, my mother's everything. Anyway, the smell of crushed garlic reminds me of Beth and brings comforting memories of good company.
I think there's something to this Day of the Dead thing. I read a TV chef say her family made the favorite foods of departed relatives. I should start celebrating this instead of drunken, costume-y chaos.
