Usually, excessive enjoyment of my current unemployment kicks my Puritan guilt gland into gear, but with the holiday season fully upon us, a toddler whose mind is perpetually blown by the sudden appearance of lights all over everything, and endless time and possibilities for baking and craft projects, I’m about as pleased as I get. Or so I thought until Miss. Z, our new Billy-watcher and, as far as he’s concerned, his fiancée, reminded me (as she knocked) that we had scheduled her to come for the morning. I stopped at the big Hannaford on my way back to the gym for the first time in a few weeks, and it hit me like a shot of Bacardi; I was alone with my market. 9:30 in the morning, no shoppers, no toddler.
Grocery shopping is one of our favorite things to do together, but Billy the Kid has one condition in return for his stellar behavior: the cart must keep moving, unless he is executing an item’s move from shelf to basket. I don’t usually mind, as I find his appreciation for efficiency endearing in an apple-didn’t-fall-far kind of way, but my heart pines each time I slow down by the cheese section, BK grabbing the handlebar warningly and rocking back and forth in an attempt to Flintstone acceleration.
Today I considered cheese for fifteen spiritual minutes, and left with a wedge of St. André, a French triple-crème cow’s milk cheese with about 70% butterfat. I only do this to myself once a year, as this cheese is more decadent than Camembert, and you’re never too young for a heart attack. Bread takes up too much gastric real estate, instead I spread 1″ slices onto Bremner Wafers and throw a few grapes on the plate to cut the salt.
So I’m looking at the Christmas tree, eating fancy cheese, clinking the ice in my Diet Coke, and contemplating watching The Royal Tenenbaums for the sixtieth time while BK finishes his nap. I’ll have an actual recipe to show for myself tomorrow, but right now I’m going to pretend that dinner gets taken care of by the help.