I hate eating alone. Absolutely, completely hate it. Sure, I got used to it - you have no choice, once you leave home and start living on your own -, but I still hate it.
I hate cooking meals for one, mostly: I usually end up screwing up the quantities, and eat either too little or too much, which is annoying, either way. And I always fall upon the same dishes, over and over again, because there's no point in trying something different when no one can share it with you.
Tuesday night was one of those nights - and, to be honest, during the whole day I have caught myself dreading the thought of the empty house I would go back to at the end of my shift.
Empty house, empty pans, empty stomach.
Food makes me much happier, when I can cook it for someone; as a matter of fact, rather than having dinner alone I prefer not to have dinner.
Screw it, I thought, at least I'll have some time to write.
There's a short story I have been thinking about for weeks, actually, and I have written only half of it, so that night should have been a good time to write further. I thought, and thought, and thought about it - on the office, on the tube - and when I finally sat down in front of the screen, pop! My mind went completely blank.
Which is usually not a problem, as my rule of thumb for writing is "if you can't remember it two hours after having thought about it, then it wasn't worth it from the start"; but damn. The alternative to writing was finding a convenient pastime that didn't consist in sitting in front of a screen, and I didn't have one, so I can safely say that I wasted a consistent part of my ever-shrinking spare time on that Terrible Tuesday.
Well done, yay! As it always happens, the following day, while heading towards the train station praying god that the rings under my eyes were not that evident, all the clever things I wanted to write came to my mind again. And there was not going to be another girl's night in to catch up, because this week - hear this, guys - I was scheduled to work on a Saturday.
No, no, no. Let's be more specifical: yesterday I went to the office because I asked for it.
Yeah, right. File it under "things you are willing to do to get an extra day off and fly back home for a few days at christmas". My holiday'd better be awesome, cause I won't settle for less after such a week.
Speaking of which, here's how it went:
Day one: I try to send a parcel to Halifax, and miserably fail, because after devoting half of my lunch break to the quest for the post office (which was inside a Costcutter I hadn't even noticed - what's wrong with clear directions and signs?), I realise that the recipient's address is written in my daily planner, and my daily planner is on my desk, back at the office.
Day two: I try to go to the bank to cash a cheque, and miserably fail, because the bank is not where it's supposed to be according to the map (thank you Barclays Branch Finder, I'll surely trust you again).
Day three: I try my luck at the post again. I spend ten minutes arguing with the guy at the counter because he doesn't want to print a posting receipt for me, not even after being showed samples of receipts I got from every other single post office I have been to during the past two months. And I have to capitulate, because it's getting late, my break is almost over, and I still have to have lunch.
Day four: Dead calm, for once. Surprising, huh?
Day five: I suffer in silence every time I hear someone saying thank god it's Friday or I'm so much looking forward to the weekend!.
And it's not actually a bad day, per se; however, I get home so tired that I'd rather shoot myself than wake up at 7 for one more day. But I still try not to complain, because I asked for it, right?
Yeah, Right.
Day six: I go to work, try to get something done at work - well, actually, I do get something done at work, but not all of it. I guess that on Tuesday I will risk being killed, as three of the four 300-page important invoices that had been left there for me to check are still untouched (ah, the perks of sharing the office with the company's Head of Finance!).
At the end of the day, heading to Soho to meet my friends is absolutely out of question for the human derelict I have turned into - so I flee back home for a much more relaxing pizza-and-football night, falling asleep 5 minutes before the end of Real Madrid vs. Barcellona.
At the end of the day, heading to Soho to meet my friends is absolutely out of question for the human derelict I have turned into - so I flee back home for a much more relaxing pizza-and-football night, falling asleep 5 minutes before the end of Real Madrid vs. Barcellona.
Day seven: Despite having earned the right to stay in bed until 1pm, I'm up and dressed at 8am because my throat is [insert swear word here] aching for whatever mysterious [insert swear word here] reason it conjured up on its own, and I can't [insert swear word here] sleep.
The plan for today is to pretend being in good shape and go meet my parents - who are here because tomorrow there is my awards ceremony, and they are still determined not to miss it, although they admittedly don't understand one word of English (guess who will have the privilege of translating?).
It's going to be...interesting, to say the least. Or it would be interesting, if it was happening to someone else. But it's happening to me, and I'd rather forget about the ceremony and the graduation and all the hype and enjoy my day off without a care.
It's going to be...interesting, to say the least. Or it would be interesting, if it was happening to someone else. But it's happening to me, and I'd rather forget about the ceremony and the graduation and all the hype and enjoy my day off without a care.
You'll agree with me that, if I survived this week, that was only be because of what I knew I would find in my fridge at the end of the day.
Amaretti with coffee and mascarpone
(and welcome to today's guest star: my lovely* and amazing* boyfriend, who actually made these mostly by himself. Alas, how I wish I was the daughter of a former chef too.)
I'm not a big fan of mascarpone, actually. I was a little worried about how it would affect the biscuits' taste, especially since no sugar is involved in the preparation, but I changed my mind as soon as I had the first bite.
I should have known better, of course: how on earth can an otherwise reasonably smart human being have doubts about something involving amaretti?
Sorry, Lord Amaretto, I won't do it anymore. These biscuits are simply amazing, and I'm trying really hard to keep myself from rushing to the kitchen and having another one. Two. Three.
As for how to make them, there's hardly anything easier.
Just soak the amaretti biscuits with coffee (I poured the coffee in a bowl and then plunged them in - and that's all I did as far as this recipe is concerned, really), and divide them into pairs: put a teaspoon of mascarpone on the flat side of one biscuit, then attach a plain biscuit, making a sort of sandwich.
As soon as each biscuit is ready, roll it in grated coconut, and put it on a plate (we used the baking tin, and covered it with a plate to protect the biscuits). Finally, put everything in the fridge, and wait at least 4 hours before serving.
See, it's really easy to make. You have no excuses not to try - so buy those [insert swear word here]** amaretti, and head to the kitchen. Now.
(on air: The Cure - Friday I'm in love)
(* = these are not my words, of course. I certainly wouldn't attribute such flattering adjectives to His Remarkable Person*, if he hadn't agreed to pay me a fee of £20 per compliment; this is business, baby, how dare you call it love?)
(** = Yes, I swear a lot, in real life. And I can't even convince myself that it's a bad thing. But then, you can't really grow up in a country village in North-eastern Italy and talk like a lady, can you?)
