Grilled fennel may be my new favourite cooked vegetable. The licorice flavour really mellows out under the broiler and it gets all tender and bitey and perfect. Ed wrinkled his nose after he tried a bite, though, so I think it'll have to be one of those rare selfish-meal things life seafood. Ed thinks cooked vegetables are an abomination. I am trying to convince him otherwise (they're sweeter! they carmelize!), but it seems that his veggie consumption will forever be limited to stir frys, carrot sticks, and those amazing caulifour that derek made for thanksgiving (you ahve no idea the housewife envy that surged through me when Ed annouced they were the best cooked veggies he'd ever eaten. Envy!)
Amy came over to watch Monday night football last night, which was terrific fun. It's always nice to have another voice to scream at the tv. I really, really want Indy to take the championship this year. Peyton is my boy. He deserves a ring. I mean, if Denver were to go all the way, though, I would hardly complain. So long as Plummer never, ever gorws his Sex Offender Moustache again. That thing gives me the jibblies.
My fridge is looking a little...barren. I did a cursory tour last night, and threw out a few things that lingered past their best before dates, and found myself looking at a lot of empty. I like grocery shopping -- wandering the aisles, I start planning future meals and getting all excited about what to do with my beautiful new produce -- but getting gorceries home is a pain in the ass. Being one of the Poor and Carless, grocery shopping means taking the bus with a zillion bags of groceries, trying to protect my fragile foodstuffs from rowdy teenagers, and feeling my arms pop out of my shoulders, stretching like cartoon limbs, while I try to drag eveything home. I need a cart. Or a little red kiddy wagon. That'd be fantastic. I'd paint flames on the side and call it the Grocery Express. Roll like the wind, grocery express!