(*Said first by Walter Weedon Grossmith, co-author of one of the funniest books ever, "Diary of a Nobody", published in 1892 and never out of print since.)
None of us left the house yesterday.
There was entirely too much to do.
At the top of the list was the home fire that needed to be kept burning. (According to convention, once the temperature drops into the 50's everyone in Hollywood is allowed to don blizzard-appropriate clothing with a completely straight face and pretend that without a roaring fire, their chilblains would set in. It's one of the perks of living in a city built on dreams.)
Inspired by this book he's reading...
...my husband decided to make a stew based on the ingredients available to his ancestors in ancient Rome, circa 175 A.D. "Think of it as culinary time travel," he said. "It's going to be like going to the Forum for Sunday lunch."
I'm calling it "Trajan's Stew" and it was pretty insanely delicious. He didn't use a recipe, so I'm not much help on the play-by-play, but I can tell you the main ingredients were farro, cod, chickpeas, onions, garlic, olive oil and butternut squash.
While my husband was immersed in recreating the Republic, I was one room and eighteen centuries away. With this soundtrack playing in the background...
...I occupied myself with traditional domestic pursuits like wrapping this chandelier cord with a silk dupioni scarf...
...and adding the final touches to this four foot by two foot embroidery piece.
(Details: Canvas, thread, leather. Just purchased by Soho House West Hollywood. No, not kidding. Yes, pinching myself.)
And the child? Oh, he was in the midst of a fierce Beyblade championship.
(What's a Beyblade, you ask? Basically a spinning top with a rip cord. FYI, nine year olds will pretty much forego food, water and sleep to play with them. Best part for parents? It's not a video game.)
I went outside and clipped some flowering branches for the dining room.
Love that little white flower. I have no idea what it's called, but I'm sure you clever people do.
Our cat carried in a huge black beetle with bristly legs and dropped it underneath this bench. It took every last ounce of nerve I had to pick it up and return it to the wild.
Hey, Twiglet. Don't worry about it. In the words of Groucho Marx, "Home is where you hang your head."
After lighting this candle and listening to my son rave about it ("It smells sooo good, Mom!")...
...I felt guilty and decided to give him something he could actually sink his teeth into.
(Do not be impressed. It's Trader Joe's Pumpkin Bread mix and it takes about one minute to get into the oven. And talk about delicious. Even my husband the food purist likes it.)
That's about it. The sun went down extra early and we wasted no time in putting on our dressing gowns. Only one thing remained on my list.
Writing what you just finished reading.