Let’s be frank for a minute. I’m not seeking pity or more attention than any other deeply insecure and needy woman my age. (Ahem). But let’s look at just the facts. Just the logical, in-arguable facts:
1) I am at least fifty pounds overweight, and am not particularly motivated to change that fact. I’ve lost it at least tens times in my life, and I’ve just come to terms with myself that it’s here to stay. I console myself that my lap is more comfortable than anyone else’s, according to my beloved Critter and Varmint.
2) I have swarthy, rather scarred skin from years of kayaking, sunbathing, and zit-picking. But those scars are well camouflaged by a ton of sun-damage created moles. And they ain’t in strategically sexy places, a la Marilyn Monroe or Marie Antoinette. Most of them are in lines or crevices on my face that make someone looking at me wonder whether they are seeing a mole or a booger. (Adds to my mystery.)
3) My hair is thinning, grey when it’s not colored, and rarely brushed.
4) My teeth are pretty good. At least the ones I still have.
5) I flatulate. If that isn’t a word, it ought to be, because every one of you knows what I mean. And as I’ve gotten older, I’ve grown less and less embarrassed about it, and snicker more and more when it happens. Oh, I still say “Excuse me” when I crop-dust a room, but I don’t REALLY mean it anymore. I’ve gone from being charmingly appropriate with my bodily expulsions, to purely juvenile.
6) I’m married to a catch. A REAL catch. A hottie, a hero, a genius, and a genuine nice guy.
Considering facts 1 through 5, how is # 6 even possible, you wonder? I will share my secret with you because we’re friends and all….
No, I mean really look at it.
Ok….this is not Prego or Ragu. This isn’t Emeril’s. It ain’t Rachel Ray’s.
It’s Mama Boe’s.
Fresh, and I do mean FRESH onions, peppers, carrots, celery, garlic, italian sausage, Not-fresh-but-at-least-it’s-organic canned tomatos, and assorted/sundry spices all happy in a big enameled cast iron pot. And then, because I’m sassy, I add my grapes:
There may be some cooks who scoff at cheap wine in any entrée, to which I snort a big ol’ condescending “Whatever.” No one should be able to tell the difference if you’re making your sauce right. The WINE does not make the sauce. It’s the BLEND of flavors that makes it.
Then, because I don’t like to make my eaters work so hard, I pull out my old, cracked palm blender….
And make the most beautiful music with it…
Now, remember the first five facts above.
No, wait, move the dirty spoons.
He can’t resist me.