I went out this morning and shoveled some snow judiciously – that is to say, I tackled the trouble spots. I thought it would be a little easier than it was. Having noted the snow was powdery, I backed out the car and drove out the drive, around the plowed big block and back into the garage, thereby marking the exact curving of the driveway. Not going to shovel where I didn’t need to and figured if I hadn’t gotten stuck, it wasn’t going to fight me.
That sort of happened, but the powdery stuff was deep in the canyon that is my entrance to Riley Street proper and the plows had left a firm new ridge at the end. It had also drifted some distance in the first subtle curve. Anyway, when I realized I was tired, I went in and plopped in front of a TV. Rachael Ray was on and she was making some sort of eggplant casserole with homemade sauce – the kind of sauce where she used an odd-looking masher and peeled whole tomatoes.
It’s always nice to see cheerful kitchens and recipes being made by people other than myself. It occurred to me that what these cooks need is a friend who likes to sip soda and tell funny stories to perch there beside them at the counter. Me. I could comment on the great smells, comment on the wholesome homeyness of the kitchen and grin and joke. Maybe hand her a spoon or whisk.
I could be sort of an AmeliaJake on the Shelf, just appreciating the hell out of the effort that was being made and the class being exhibited. This would be a great job. Especially if she had cute little snackie things already prepared. People could book me ahead of time and I’d show up . . . and just be ME.
Rose thinks there might be a glitch in this idea, but, my goodness, what could it be? Oh, Rose is saying, “Who” could it be, not what. (Chuckle) Rose gets these silly ideas.