This is so far off topic (potting table) that if you want to stop reading now I'll understand.
But it is about food, so you might want to hang in here.
I have a dual relationship with food. When I am happy in a relationship, I'm in that kitchen rattling those pots and pans.
When the relationship starts to go south or is completely over my interest in food dwindles.
When Tony and I split up in 2008 I was so happy not to hear the words "what's for dinner" every night, I took a cooking vacay.
Instead of shopping, chopping, cooking and cleaning up the kitchen, I threw myself in Salsa dancing.
My neighbor Nelda and I went 3 times a week, whether she wanted to or not.
I danced myself down to about 98 lbs.
She danced herself into shoulder surgery.
Luckily for both of us I met GG.
And started to cook again.
I haven't gone back to Salsa after our breakup, I now have shoulder issues of my own.
And I do feed myself in a healthy, utilitarian way.
But there's no spoiling coming outta my kitchen.
Or at least there wasn't till Superman moved in.
This morning I work up to crepes two ways: one with raspberries and blueberries, one with scrambled eggs and ham.
And I still hadn't fully digested last night's dinner of fried rice with vegetables. But I'm not complaining, please.
Bet his wife misses the hell out of him!
( And he's even getting used to living with a blogger, camera at the ready).
He's here till December.