Wednesday morning, 8:49 a.m.
Operation Mini-Skirt Status: -19.6 lbs.
Mood: Pretty good.
My Big Fat Cook-o-Matic.
We've got really thick Cook-o-Matic pots and pans in my kitchen. They were bought sometime in the '70's, probably given to my mother at her bridal shower or something, and even though we use the hell out of them, they still look shiny clean and fabulous.
I love them. I absolutely love them. They're pretty bulky and far heavier than the stuff they make today, but I like that. It's nice to have heft when you create tomato sauces that have to simmer for three or four hours.
So, anyway, I was standing over the stove the other day, lightly sautéing some veal, while my Italiana mother was at the counter, chopping garlic or some such thing. (Someone is always chopping garlic in my house.)
I remarked upon my love of the durable set of kitchenware, and she said she'd get some for my trousseau.
Trousseau. Yes, she said trousseau. They exist in my world. They even come with different categories.
Kitchen and bath.
Linen - bath, kitchen, bedroom. Crystal. Silver. China.
In my world, the linen part of that will come stored in an oak hope chest that will likely be kept at the foot of my marriage bed, so that my husband can sit on it while he pulls his socks on in the morning.)
Back at the stove...
"My trousseau?" I asked, lightly.
"Well, that's nice, Mother. But..." Deep breath.
"Well, what if I don't get married?"
"Well then, you won't need them, will you?"
Check the veal. Concentrate on the veal. Don't burn the veal. You're only allowed three and a half ounces of it, so don't screw it up.
"Right. But, let's say I was to become a pioneer in this famiglia, harness my independent spirit, and invest in a nice piece of real estate - by myself?"
"That would be fine. And while you're at it, you can invest in a nice set of Cook-o-Matics."
At least the veal was good.
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