....and the (metaphorical) birth of a newly married woman.
Last night I put forth my fourth attempt at a delicious cheesy macaroni & broccoli casserole with toasted bread crumbs on top. Why didn't any of my math teachers tell me I need to pay attention for the sake of my cooking?
Seriously, do you know off the top of your head what 1 1/2 x 3/4 is? I sure as hell don't. How long does it take me to put up a tent? Five minutes. How much firewood for one night? Two bundles. How long until until we can pass out in the tent? As long as you'd like, thankyouverymuch.
But 1 1/2 of 3/4 of a cup of something? How do you convert a recipe for a 8x8 pan to fit your 9x11 pan? That's....let me think....35 square inches extra to fill. Right? Do you measure cheese packed into the measuring cup like brown sugar, or loose and fluffy? Can you substitute baking soda for baking powder? Salted or unsalted butter?
Now that is survival of the fittest. No wonder most of America relegates to the trusty drive-thru and has heart disease until they die tragically before their time. Because it's a pain in the ass! The first attempt: delicious. The second attempt: drowned in cheese sauce. The third attempt: perfect! Last night - crispy noodles on top, for lack of enough cheese sauce. Using the same recipe every time!
What's a math-deficient girl to do? Thankfully, this one has a calculator, Google search skills and a healthy dose of patience.
One of many redeeming qualities of cooking is that it takes my mind off the wedding. Am I awake? Yes? Then I'm thinking about the wedding. Oh, wait. I'm asleep? Must be having that weird dream again where i'm at the altar and forgot my vows. Or maybe it's the one where my in-laws dressed me in a suit of magical golden armor, sent me out into the forest, and informed me that if I survived their trial, I would be worthy of my groom. No? Maybe, then, the frighteningly joyous one where I am singing a lullaby to my newborn baby. WAIT! WHAT?! How did THAT one get in there? WHO AM I?!
Oh, it's coming, it surely is. But how can I comingle this lust for freedom with my lust for, well, settling down? Often I will see hitchiking youths my age and feel a tinge of jealousy for their wanderlust-driven lives. In the same day, I will see a heart-melting baby being soothed by a radiant and proud mother. Is the answer to go through nine months of suffering, only to drag my poor infant out on to a treacherous hike? I think not. But play dates? Daycare? Immunization schedules? Planned date nights? To my ears that screams repression louder than the word itself. I can only hope that marriage and motherhood, neither of which I have yet experienced, will come with unexpected joys that far surpass the crushing monotony of their consequences. My five-year relationship has had tinges of marriage. After all, we have lived together nearly the entire time and this has brought me vastly much more joy than pain. At the end of the day, I look forward to whatever may come, though I simultaneously fear it. The trick seems to be a tall order for an over-analyzing bride-to-be: to simply live in the moment.
For tonight? Home-made chicken noodle soup: chicken broth, seasoning, shredded chicken, sliced carrots and egg noodles. For dipping: a french loaf with homemade garlic butter toasted in the oven, and a little wine. Mmmm.
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