I’m taking it easy.

That’s my armchair doctor prescription.  I am just so drained, so exhausted, and so SORE (everywhere, and in places I didn’t think could possible BE sore), that I’m making a concerted effort to NOT.  I’m now taking the elevator.  I’m trying to park closer.  Blah blah blah.

Last night, I made some amazing chicken.  By accident.  Which is awesome, because usually the recipies I follow to the letter always make Bryan sick. (It’s fun cooking for him, let me tell you.) But I decided to make something easy and simple (because I’m just freakin’ tired), so I flattened some chicken breasts, seasoned them heavily, and then dredged them in flour.

The minute they hit the oil, though, this piercing sweet aroma permeated the kitchen.  Bryan noticed it too, and I was immediately terrified.  Another meal Bryan wouldn’t eat.

As it turns out, Bryan keeps pancake mix in a canister that looks EXACTLY like the flour canister.  I dredged the chicken in pancake mix.  It was delicious.  Wrong.. oh-so-wrong.. but delicious.  Juicy, tender, crispy, pan-seared.  And just screaming for maple syrup.

This morning, I have bangs that I would’ve killed for in the late 80s.  They are HIGH and crazy.  Debbie Gibson would be proud.  But my leisurely coffee break this morning went too long and I hurried getting ready, and now I have to duck when going through low doorways.

For my birthday, my sister gave me an Amazon gift certificate.  Part of it went to a replacement of The Wild Party, which was stolen umpteen months ago, and the other part went to purchase this book.  I flipped through it last night and fell in love with some of the entries, so I’ll do one this afternoon.

Tremble with antici….