Somehow, I couldn't quite convince my parents that finding goose liver sausages, mashing them up, spreading them on saltines and calling it delicious was a viable dinner option. I guess they actually suffered through the '60s, so cooking from 1962 was not an option. So, you'll be getting a special DECADE MEAL on Sunday, where I make two recipes just to get caught up, and then you'll probably also get a special LIVE HOSPITAL BLOG Monday morning when I go to get my stomach pumped.
Toronto was a ton of fun, even if it culminated with an embarrassing faceplant on a concrete sidewalk. I met up with all the friends I missed, including a crew who can outdrink me. The Ukrainian side of my genes was ever so ashamed of my performance. However, since I packed a week's worth of festivities into a day and half, most of which was spent carrying around my weight in clothes and sundries in a suitcase, I was pretty much dead when I returned to Guelph. So three quiet days with Smitty The Wonder Dog, my master chef dad and my mom were much appreciated. Even if they included conversations like this:
*Scene: debating dinner options with my family, with a cookbook's odd take on tuna sandwiches coming out ahead*
Mom: Since when did you start eating tuna?
Protagitron: Since I started being broke. I ate tuna noodle casseroles all the time for a while there.
Mom: But Protagitron, these are sandwiches and not casseroles, you know.
*I stare at the cookbook page facing me with "Tuna Sandwiches" in large letters. And a photo of a filling nestled between two slices of bread. As sandwiches so often are.*
Protagitron: I... was... aware of that, mother.
Mom: Oh, shut up.
Now I'm back in Montreal, celebrating a Netherlands win and poking my lazy, sleeping cat to make sure he's still alive. All is right in my world.
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