Spaghetti is not Gaelic, and other stories

I have spent most of today cooking, which is insane, both because I don’t enjoy cooking (blasting Duran Duran’s All You Need Is Now, among other albums, helped) and because Ken’s in charge of cooking now. (He’s not working, therefore, he’s in charge of the house.) But I told him I’d chop veggies if he went to Costco, and I chopped veggies for three things:

1. a big pot of veggie soup, which I made. It’s quite good; we had it for lunch with the last of the bread from Erick Schat’s Bakkerÿ, omnom.
2. an enormous vat of spaghetti* sauce in the crock pot. Later, Ken will brown the ground beef and onion, and we’ll add it to half the sauce, and then we’ll freeze all of it in smaller containers, except the non-meat sauce that we want to keep out for calzones later this week
3. Thai stir-fry, which Ken’s making for dinner tonight.

Now it’s 4:30 and I need to start getting some actual work done. (No, I didn’t cook until now; I also had a leisurely lunch with Ken and played some Spider Solitaire and read some blogs and made tea.)

Copyediting and a much-overdue short story, here I come….

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* For all I love pasta with a passion that cannot die, I’m incapable of spelling spaghetti correctly on the first try. Why must it have that “h” in there? It’s not freaking Gaelic!