Gotham Diary:
Conniptions
14 February 2013
It’s Valentine’s Day, but I have yet to see my wife. My dear Kathleen woke up in Florida this morning, flew to New York, and went straight to the office. She’s still there. I’m wondering what we’re going to have for dinner. Rib steak, definitely. Smashed new potatoes, absolutely — have to try that out! Are you with me? Did you read the Times yesterday? (What a provincial question, I know.) Did you see Melissa Clark’s expandable holiday menu, suitable for two and multiples of two? I haven’t made up my mind about the mousse yet — the mousse that’s just bittersweet chocolate and water, melted and then whisked over ice. Probably won’t do it, on the theory that Kathleen has given up chocolate for Lent, as usual. The real reason, though, is that I’ve had two conniptions today, and I’m exhausted.
The second conniption was about the rib steak. At Agata & Valentina yesterday, I asked the butcher — a new face — to saw one of their hefty rib steaks in half, making two thinner ones. When I got home, I threw the package into the freezer, because I couldn’t be sure what would happen this evening. (Kathleen was supposed to come home last night, but stayed overnight because of storm-induced delays.) I ought to have checked first, though, because the young man neglected to slip a sheet of butcher’s paper between the two steaks, so that I had to hack them apart this afternoon — not pretty.
The first conniption, which took place in two sessions, was induced by Readerware. I don’t want to talk about it. I dislike everything about Readerware except the bar code function, which is a dream, and the Help section. I loathe the Help section. It is a million times worse than utterly useless, which is why I don’t want to talk about it. Also, it’s time to cook dinner. It’s time to cook dinner because I’ve spent the afternoon uploading CDs onto iTunes (so that I can slip the discs into paper sleeves and chuck the jewel boxes, saving lots of room) and reading a delightfully sour novel, Truth in Advertising, by John Kenney. I don’t know why Crawford Doyle didn’t carry it; the book is a slam dunk for our demographic. (Did I say that right?) But they ordered it for me and now I have it. I’d much much rather read it than clean up the table and set it for dinner. But! It’s Valentine’s Day, and Kathleen will be home in an hour, and — OMG, I forgot to uncork the wine.