Another Shabbat where I cooked NOTHING: really, literally, not a thing. Fortunately for us, we have wonderful friends within minutes of our house who capably fed us throughout Shabbat.
Friday night, Marc and I got home from stroller shopping (yes, seriously) 5 minutes before Shabbat started; I showered, got dressed, lit candles, and walked less then a block to dinner at Joline’s. We are lucky people!
Back when I could refer to my vegetarianism without irony (around the same time when I didn’t have stains on all my shirts about two inches above my belly button), Marc would tell me about “Shabbos chicken,” a phenomenon he described as gristly, hard to eat, and served exclusively by Jewish institutions on Friday nights. I didn’t really get it, but now that I eat the occasional Friday night chicken, I’m starting to understand the range of what’s out there: the good, the bad, and the gristle. As soon as we left dinner on Friday, Marc and I looked at each other, and nearly simultaneously pronounced Joline’s chicken “the antithesis of Shabbos chicken.” It was flavorful, it was boneless, there was no gristle, and it was cooked perfectly. Everything else at dinner was delicious, too, most memorably the carrot-apple soup and the green beans, but the chicken was seriously special.
Beverly and Naomi hosted us for lunch on Saturday: polenta, cheesy spinach, baked tofu, salad (from Marcel, with home-grown chives!), and challah with spreads. The spreads were our contribution, and they were leftover from last week’s sandwich extravaganza — it’s not just that I didn’t cook this week, I didn’t even stop at the store. Wow. There were whiskey cookies for dessert, which were yummy and all, but mostly just served to make me realize that it’s been a really long time since I’ve had a drink.
Both of these meals were incredibly pleasant, relaxing, and great, but I also can’t pin down any other details. That doesn’t mean there wasn’t stimulating conversation and incredible company, it just means that my brain seems to be working part-time these days on the outside world and putting in double time on things like, say, the heel lodged in my ribs. In that spirit, and because there was no food to photograph this week, I’m including a picture of my belly. Yes, the rest of me is in it too, but I know you (like all the people I passed on the street this week who pretended not to stare) are really looking at my belly.