See that smiling man? The same man I wrote about with such appreciation yesterday, gushing over how he started out in our marriage of nearly nineteen years by liking steaks cooked until they were really and truly dead beyond any hope of resuscitation (he now likes them so that they're still emitting faint moos when served) and CANNED BISCUITS, but now likes the good food from my beloved Julia cookbooks?
Well. Yesterday evening, the table was set -- with a centerpiece, even! -- and the girls carried in the soup plates piled high with lusciously steaming beef bourguignon served on a bed of fluffy rice. Other than the fact that I had no fresh parsley to garnish each serving with as Julia asked me to do, it looked really nice. So hearty! So home-cooked! So French!
We said the grace before meals and lifted our forks, rapturously chewing the first few tender bites and my husband cheerfully remarked, "This reminds me of the stuff I used to eat for dinner when I was in the army."
The faint cha-chinging sound I heard in the distance may have been the oven timer going off. Or it may have been the sound of my Mother's Day gift being automatically upgraded.
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