Lasagne in the Slow Cooker
This morning the Zen alarm went off, and for a while I incorporated its meditative little bell into a dream concerning British Modernism, about which I know Precious Little (when I teach Joyce it's in relation to Myles na Gopaleen rather than Eliot, so God alone knows whether what I was dreaming had any relation to any sort of reality), but finally I figured out that it was the Zen alarm and I had to wake up, and so I did, and the first thing through my head was remembering the moment at the grocery store when I didn't buy ricotta.
I didn't know you could remember a negative happening, but there you are. I distinctly remember pushing the shopping cart past the ricotta.
This was bad, because the plan today was that I'd put lasagna in the slow cooker, so we could have a nice home-cooked dinner even though I'm going to be late.
I have to be late coming home tonight cause I need to go to a meeting with the theater director, and theater people can't meet before 4:00 PM on account of all that exciting living, which regularly goes on till 3 or 4 in the morning and then they have to recover from all that Dramatic Art.
I tell a lie, actually. The theater director actually works someplace else and can't get here before 4:00. But I like much better the story where he's busy with Dramatic Art till 0'dark-thirty. I think he'd like that story better, too. Let's go with that.
Anyway. Dinner. So what we're having is a sort of slow-cooked casserole -- we've got the marinara sauce, we've got the Italian sausage, we've got the lasagna, we've got the mozzarella; we just don't have any ricotta. I'm serving it with a salad. I think it'll work.
And, should the Freezing Rain of Death hold off, I can get home and eat it.
Where, to my joy, I get to actually stay home working on my nice fluffy (but not pink) pullover, which is coming along so quickly I might get to wear it next week.
(That was knitting content. I try to obey the rules.)
I didn't know you could remember a negative happening, but there you are. I distinctly remember pushing the shopping cart past the ricotta.
This was bad, because the plan today was that I'd put lasagna in the slow cooker, so we could have a nice home-cooked dinner even though I'm going to be late.
I have to be late coming home tonight cause I need to go to a meeting with the theater director, and theater people can't meet before 4:00 PM on account of all that exciting living, which regularly goes on till 3 or 4 in the morning and then they have to recover from all that Dramatic Art.
I tell a lie, actually. The theater director actually works someplace else and can't get here before 4:00. But I like much better the story where he's busy with Dramatic Art till 0'dark-thirty. I think he'd like that story better, too. Let's go with that.
Anyway. Dinner. So what we're having is a sort of slow-cooked casserole -- we've got the marinara sauce, we've got the Italian sausage, we've got the lasagna, we've got the mozzarella; we just don't have any ricotta. I'm serving it with a salad. I think it'll work.
And, should the Freezing Rain of Death hold off, I can get home and eat it.
Where, to my joy, I get to actually stay home working on my nice fluffy (but not pink) pullover, which is coming along so quickly I might get to wear it next week.
(That was knitting content. I try to obey the rules.)
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