My advances were rejected in favor of tending to the garlic, but he’s making me potato soup courtesy of a recipe he learned from some woman in Brazil, so really, who am I to complain? As I type this, he’s caramelizing the onions and filling the kitchen with glorious scents of our dinner to come (now that I think about it, we’ve– unintentionally– cooked midnight dinners on more than a few occasions), and also I have apples. All I really want these days are apples, though this is hardly surprising for me. I’m in apple mode for sure. But potatoes are kind of like apples, so: potato soup. I’m excited.
I got one hour of sleep this morning, and it was on the plane. That one hour of sleep only tided me over for so long. I’ve been intermittently crashing for the last four hours.
He’s wearing his Peruvian hat with the llamas (alpacas?) knitted into the pattern, and the Beatles are playing on the little CD player sitting on top of the microwave (and we’re occasionally singing along to it), and it’s kind of cold but I’ve got his jacket to burrow into, so again– no complaints.
(I just unwrapped it off the back of the chair I’m sitting in, actually. The jacket I’ve been wearing all day– also his– is on the chair right next to me, but this one was technically closer, and anyway, it smells like him.)
Mmm. Soup’s on! Or close enough to on. I’m tired enough that I’m about to start writing all the inappropriate things that absolutely don’t belong on this site, and that alone should be motivation to call this post over.