I'm torn between making soup and reading a book.
Not even a good book, really, a pot-boiler, but it sounds sort of decadent to curl up in a corner and get swept away for an hour or so to a place where children scream only when it furthers the plot and the weather is always a good indicator of what's coming up next.
It's grey and sodden today - a perfect day for soup: hot, nestled into blue and white bowls, small faces tipping down into the steam....hm. Chicken and white bean? Avgolemono?I would love to make reuben soup, but that's a crockpot recipe and I want it now.
Instead, I'll probably make chicken parmigiana and coax everyone into garlic bread-pasta carbohydrate-induced slumber.
Then, the livingroom, the lap blanket, the blessed silence....
will be mine.