Wet

June 12, 2007 § Leave a comment

Thanks to the never-ending rain and dense fog that are smothering Lunenburg these past several days, our towels, which we hang to dry in our poorly-ventilated bathroom, aren’t drying so much as festering. We scrub away a day’s worth of condensation and the rub ourselves vigorously with mildew-scented linens. Mmmmm.

Eight pounds of rhubarb now sit menacingly on our kitchen table, daring me to attack it, but I’m afraid it wins. I’m not eager to start hacking away at the wiry, bile-colored older specimens. I hear Richard out there fighting the good fight, though. Thwack, thwack, thwack.

Richard’s nephew is headed to Maine today to pick up a 2001 Volvo he bought on eBay. He called weeks ago, before he even bid, to check whether my parents would mind having it delivered to their house, so he could collect it. No delivery to Canada, of course. They agreed, I called the nephew back to give the contact information… and then he disappeared for two and a half weeks. Didn’t call me, didn’t call my parents*— which really isn’t cool with my parents; my mother, particularly, likes to be kept informed— until yesterday when he phoned them to say the car’s being delivered Wednesday. Awesome.

I, of course, have spent the last fortnight scheming ridiculous ways for me to be the one to pick up the car myself, but came up with nothing. Damn.

Nephew did agree to bring a baptism gift for my parents to give to my new cousin, Sophia. Here she is in her finery. My brother was hoping for a boy— six, now seven, girls have been born in the family since him— but I don’t think it’s possible to argue with this level of adorable.

sophie.jpg

Can’t wait to meet her.

Two nights ago, I made Afghan Home-Style Naan from Alford & Duguid’s flatbread book, and, well, oops. Apparently I was after Afghan Snowshoe Naan (next page), but what I got was a dank, beige, flavorless whole wheat pita. Boo.

It’s always a crushing blow when yeasted baked goods don’t turn out. Regardless of who actually put effort into the kneading (in this case, the Kitchenaid), after such a long, hopeful wait for the rise, everyone in the house is bereft when the result is off. I’ve still god four tidily-wrapped balls of dough in the fridge, but you’ve disappointed us for the first and last time, psuedo-naan! Henceforth, you’re nothing but pizza crust!

Maybe that’s my new insult: “Shut up, man. Know what? YOU’RE NOTHING BUT PIZZA CRUST.” “Well, excuse me, but you don’t have to be so hurtful.”

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