Veggie warning for the beet-phobic among the readership.
I don’t know who I am anymore.
Once upon a time, I didn’t need a grocery list. I was a whiz in the kitchen. I’d whip up a batch of, oh, I don’t know – let’s say chocolate beet brownies – or lasagna – maybe both in the same afternoon – after a day of weeding in the yard and hanging laundry on the line. And the brownies were perfectly executed and the lasagna “to die for” and everyone would rant and rave and sing my praises.
I used to track my expenses to the penny. I tended the garden with maniacal precision. Computers and printers and all manner of office tools obeyed my every command.
Now? Loosey-goosey is my middle name. Now, it’s, “Sorry honey, I forgot the marshmallows,” and “Who cares that the bank book doesn’t balance?” Besides, hawkweed and wild strawberry lend a quaint Victorian cottage feel to the place, don’t you agree? And that clothes dryer is mighty attractive these frosty fall mornings.
Now? I am more often than not defeated by printers and fax machines. Yesterday, while helping out at the library, a patron had to wait 45 minutes for her fax to go through. BECAUSE I DIALED THE WRONG FREAKING NUMBER! (Stupid minuscule keyboard and my giant fingers.)
Today, I almost forgot – AGAIN!- to add the meat (well, the meat substitute) to the lasagna. However, I did remember, after a half-dozen times of forgetting, to add the spinach to the tomato sauce. Today, the brownies* are sugar-free – they don’t taste bad, if you are a fan of bitter dark chocolate. The only saving grace is the natural sugar content of the beets. But I topped them with homemade frosting for the sweet tooth in the house. Frosting that I made without measuring and with a heavy hand. Way too much milk, so it’s runny.
See what I mean? I’m completely out of control!
The irony is, it doesn’t matter. Not one bit. The brownies taste fine. As does the pasta, if a little less than “meaty” if you’ll forgive my pun.
I suppose it’s a sign of maturity. Which is another word for aging. Which is another way of saying that I’m an old fart.
OK, then! I know who I am. I’m officially an old fart.
But please? Wish me well. This old fart just got herself a new “smartphone.”
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*I told Joey that I made brownies. She asked how they turned out. This is my reply.