Author: camparigirlTrying to make sense of the world and life through food and words.
Until she divorced, when I was already in my 20s, my mother was a homemaker. Being the disgruntled teenager that I was, I criticized her to martyrdom for her choice not to work, as I saw it, and spend her time cooking two meals a day, shuttling my sister and I all over town and, the worst offense of all in my book, waiting on my father hand and foot.
I have this long-standing habit of leafing through fashion magazines or catalogues and asking myself, on every page, “Out of the selection on these two pages, what would I buy?”. It’s a tad compulsive habit at this point, probably because I have been doing it for so long, but it’s a cheap and engaging way of spending twenty minutes.
There is something sofa girl and I have in common: we abhor food waste, always using everything, down to the last bit of sad-looking celery in the refrigerator drawer. I am not sure where we get it from. My mother has never wasted food, and always repurposed leftovers, but even she doesn’t come close to my compulsion. If I bought it, I will find a way to cook it and eat it.
As time goes by, still reeling from the disappointment of the last Presidential election, I think more and more about moving back to Europe. Unlike many who have threatened an en masse move to Canada, I could do it fairly easily. The perennial dysfunction that has been an Italian trademark since Roman times looks welcoming from afar right now, it even beckons.
On the downside, it might rain again this weekend. On the upside, my garden looks more like Hawaii than the desert it’s supposed to be, and it’s Oscar night on Sunday. That merits a cocktail, a quiche and a long stay on the sofa critiquing clothes. Numbers 1, 4 and 5 are compliments of sofagirl who might not be present on these pages anymore but is very much present in my inbox and, by extension, today, in yours.