Dinner

"So what are you fixing for dinner tonight?" asked Mrs. Piecrust.

"Oh, I'm thinking about doing some lasagne sort of thing that isn't really lasagne."

"Ohh," she remarked, when I would have said something pretty offensive, like, "What!? What's that supposed to mean?" But Mrs. Piecrust has much better manners than I.

There's no recipe for the food items I slopped together ... mangled ... abused ... lovingly blended for dinner last night. Neither was there a good explanation for dinner being 45 minutes late (again).

Tip: When planning what time to begin preparing a meal, consider the bake time required after assembling ingredients. (I'm such a smart cook. I'm really on the ball in the kitchen.)

Before long, I'll be posting the recipe for Spasagne, which may help explain what happens in my kitchen. For now, I can tell you that last night's lasagne-sort-of-thing developed from a very large jar of Ragu that I'd opened and out of which I'd used what looked like maybe a cup of sauce? Hmm, I better be using the rest of that before it grows a salad in the jar or something.

So I browned some ground beef and glopped in a heaping tablespoon of minced garlic. I emptied that huge jar of Ragu into the skillet and set the heat to low. I dumped a container of cottage cheese in a bowl, took the lid off the parmesan cheese and got sort of carried away, throwing it all over the bowl, then added a couple of eggs. Liar. I didn't add the eggs. Son4 added the eggs. But I snatched the errant piece of egg shell which was about to become lasagne surprise on someone's dinner plate. And I set a package of noodles a-boil: noodle noodles. You know, those thin, skinny, curvy little things about 2" long.

['Xcuse me here, while I have a little hysterical breakdown over what happens in my kitchen. Moments ago, as I sat typing, there came repeated knocking and thumping sounds from the vicinity of the kitchen. I finally decided I should investigate. Maybe the cat was closed in the abyss (don't even ask). Maybe he'd gotten into my closet (which is in the kitchen). Maybe the bread machine was walking off the counter as it kneaded. (We'll visit the bread machine again momentarily.) So I checked the abyss -- no cat. My closet -- no cat. Bread machine -- firmly planted on the countertop, and working like a dawg. I glanced around the kitchen and had a sudden, overwhelming fear that I'd closed the cat in the dishwasher...which was surely into the rinse cycle by now. I raced to the dishwasher, yanked open the door, and peered inside. Dishes. Lots and lots of dishes. No room for a fat cat. I don't know what was making the sounds, but it didn't matter after I was sure I hadn't killed the cat...and began laughing hysterically at myself.]

Where were we? We were throwing things into a bowl with cottage cheese. ...I thawed some spinach, then smashed the dickens out of it with paper towels. (What is dickens, and why would it be in spinach? -- I'm sure I got it out, so don't worry.) Threw the spinach in with the cottage cheese. Parsley is green, and spinach is green -- stay with me here.

Then I layered noodles, cottage cheese glop, many fistfuls of mozzarella cheese, and meat sauce into a very large baking pan. Twice.

Then Charles walked in the door, ready for dinner ... which I slid into the oven, hoping that action would go unnoticed. It didn't. Thank the Lord for a patient, understanding, LONGSUFFERING husband, who knows his wife utterly stinks at all things mathematic, including approximations and time management. That "E" (yes, I'm that old -- E, S, M, I, F) in algebra hasn't done diddly for me -- EVER. Pi never helped with a pie, and that's just not right.

So I was going to do better today. We managed to close the textbooks before 3:00 p.m., having begun our studies early and worked with only a lunch break. I set the bread machine on the counter at 2:48, knowing I could measure and toss ingredients inside of 12 minutes and have hot bread at 6:00. French bread. Nice, hot French bread with warmed, leftover lasagne-sort-of. White bread is ready to eat in 3 hours. Potato bread is ready to eat in 3 hours. Pumpernickel bread is ready to eat in 3 hours. French bread ... French bread ... is ready to eat in 3 hours and 40 minutes!? Could ya just spit? *thwphfiiiit*

"Hi Honey, are you home? Would you like a little appetizer before dinner? ... What was that? Potato chips aren't appetizers? Want a graham cracker? How about a fistful of Cap'n Crunch? Know what? I didn't kill the cat today."