Oh my word. The busyness has not let up- buying a house, selling a house, wrapping up work before three weeks away. It’s all still going strong. In the mean time not a lot of cooking has gone on. But I’m still eating, of course:
Nice (but overpriced) Asian-inspired food at Bon with M.
Sushi and Chinese take-out in Huizen (this was supposed to have been a surprise dinner out for the husband’s birthday, but fatigue and headache intervened).
Time to exhale with a pizza on the couch with the parents.
The Husband’s Famous Chicken Pie and roasted broccoli. Cooked by the husband, eaten in a sparklingly clean home that had not yet regained its messiness after the photographer’s visit.
DIY meat fest (gourmet) with the extended family-in-law.
Carrot-coconut soup. Home-made, yes, but it was supposed to be followed by Indonesian braised kale and that didn’t happen. Bread, cheese and fish from the supermarket were as far as I got. The baby had no complaints as she smacked her way through half a tin of sardines.
Pasta from a box, oddly flavorless coconut chunks and a new plastic bottle of water (again, my brain is lazy about remembering to re-use these). No picture, because I could not muster the enthusiasm to get up out off my seat and dig through my bag for my camera. Well, at least I was on the train, and remembered to bring clean underwear.
The husband deserved some potatoes for working so hard on clearing extraneous junk from the apartment all day (the house is being photographed on Friday!). And he put away an impressive pile of them. The baby had a few ketchup-drowned bites too, and used the salad mostly for decorative purposes (so pretty, purple squiggles on a cream floor!). Me, I enjoyed my salad and ignored the spuds.
Sweet potato fries are not my friend. I find the idea of them irresistible (crunchy outside, soft inside, without the funny gassy flavor that regular potatoes bring), but the practice always disappoints. Luisa Weiss’ write-up here seduced me to give them another try, but alas. Chewy, hard-edged and a bit greasy. Pah. Well, at least we discovered that the baby is not allergic to egg when scarved down one from my plate without ill-effect.
Friday night, sushi night. It is not quite a tradition yet, but I think it should be. Léa thought she should be part of the raw fish party and went to help herself when we turned out to disagree. We plopped her back in her seat with some edamame, and she stuffed her cheeks with little green discs. Then she got ready for her pasta with fish and veg from a jar by blowing all beans out onto the table. In the end, though, the jar was empty, the beans safely in her stomach and all of us happy with dinner.