“Um … well it’s edible, I guess.”
Apparently the filling was too salty and thick, and I used the wrong gluten free flour so the crust was too greasy and sweet. And now my husband has embittered me so that I’m sour on the whole thing.
This morning I was supposed to sit home and rest my foot (which is bruised for some reason and it hurts me to walk).
I was also going to spend hours and hours on my blog going through my recipes to put them in printable form. Then I would catch up on blog reading and start figuring out how to watermark my photos. (Somehow I also thought I could pull a recipe post off on the same day).
But just as I was about to hop in the shower, my husband called and said the trains were backed up and he was going to be late to his meeting. So I ran to pick him up and drive him into La Defense.
After killing time and getting all the groceries for the leek and chevre tarte of today’s post (and a shirt for me at the Gap), we drove home where I put about half the groceries away. It was hard to move around because the kitchen was messy, and my foot hurt, and I had limited time before rushing off to my nutritionist meeting. She had called while I was at the store to say she had a spot today if I was up for coming in.
So instead of resting as planned, I got back in the car and drove to a nearby town where I looked for a place to park my behemoth (very large 7 seater car). I tried one spot, but it didn’t fit comfortably and there were people behind me. So I pulled further up to a bigger spot and made the people behind me wait again.
I was stressed to have angry Parisian drivers behind me, and it was one of those cobblestone streets with cement blocks on one side to mark the side of the road (since there is no pavement or painted marks). I backed up in a hurry to let the people pass … and backed right into the square, sharp-angled cinder block, puncturing our bumper in the process.
I was so distraught at what my husband was going to say this time when only last week I drove into the school gate with our other car because I was changing gears while turning on a hill, smashing the front bumper and right blinker. So I stumbled out of the car to have a look at the damage … and promptly walked into another iron road marker. Situated about shin-high.
I cannot describe the pain except to say that it was not short-lived.
Both the dented bumper and dented knee occurred, of course, in front of a booming sidewalk café where people had nothing better to do than smoke, drink and stare at me. I cried and laughed pathetically to myself as I limped, doubled over, past them to the borne to get a parking ticket. Then I limped and cried and laughed pathetically to myself back to the car to stick the ticket in the window before limping back-trackedly the other way to the nutritionist’s office, biting my lip to keep rogue emotions from exploding before wine-sipping French sophisticates.
(Yes I know back-trackedly is not a word).
So now I’m home. I’m sitting here eating cookies for dinner (which is not what the nutritionist ordered) instead of my edible tarte (which is not what the nutritionist ordered either … in fact, after one taste I’m quite sure she would forbid it and tell me to eat the cookies instead). And I’m too exhausted to clean the kitchen which was demolished in a G5 geomagnetic cooking storm.
I wonder what tomorrow will bring?
I’m hoping for something bland.