I used to kid that, fierce independence and career aside, I’d have made a great 1950’s housewife. The kind who wore aprons and greeted her man at the door with a cold martini, some nights wrapped naked in Saran Wrap. Today was just one of those days.
I can cook, baby, hot and fast, using loads of vegetables and olive oil and garlic and shallots. But I can’t bake. Bores me really, and flour is annoying. This morning, however, having found a jaw-dropping recipe in the local paper for chocolate and orange sconces, I baked up a batch. Doubled the chocolate. Ever so good with a cup of strong Joe.
After a couple of loads of wash and a bit of ironing, off to the salon, two hours of gossip and saucy talk, wonderful scalp massage and fruity/minty smells. I’m still dark, cinnamon auburn (“Caramel Apple” it’s called, but think red delicious) and letting it grow for the nieces wedding next month. I cut back the bangs and did long, swingy layers. Yep. I’m cute.
On the way home, stopped by the grocery to load up on fresh produce and the makings for sushi later this week. I roll my own, talented fingers, like working a Cuban. There’s a London broil marinating and I’ll side it with roasted asparagus and shaved parmesan. Already had a glass of white. Red goes better with dinner.
After that, perhaps a bubble bath then slip into a pink cotton nightie. I’m always up for lights out “wifely duties."
Marry me? I’ll say no.