Yesterday morning, I stood at the entranceway to our living room and surveyed the damage. There were stacks of books and magazines on the coffee table, tumbles of blankets on the couch, a smattering of empty mugs with used tea bag strings dangling over their rims. My abandoned crutches were leaning on the door, my physical therapy CPM machine on the floor.
Two weeks after my hip surgery I can finally walk without assistance.
This, unfortunately, means I can clean as well.
It’s fine. I like it actually. It’s very cathartic after two weeks of being absolutely still.
Shannon, my insane boyfriend and exceptional caretaker, has taken the weekend off to run a marathon in Niagara. He’s an ultra runner.
This marathon is 100 miles. ONE HUNDRED MILES. I know. I think the same thing.
My love affair with food began in the dim dark ages of the glorious 1990’s, when neon was king and it was cool to rock a mullet while listening to Marky Mark and his Funky Bunch. Born in San Diego and being brought up by a Hawaiian family from beautiful Kaneohe, greatly impacted my palate, and brought me to the culinary forefront well before my time.
