Guys, it has NOT been a good week at our house. There has been entirely too few moments of laughing easily and entirely to many moments of crying hard.
In times like this I have two instincts. One is to circle the wagons and withdraw into the security of our little three being family. Except one of our wagons - it ain't gonna be circling any time soon. All of its oxen have died...in a collision with another wagon. There will be no mending of axles or changing of wheels and one wagon does a shitty circle make. But in the more figurative sense (the one that actually matters) the problem with my strategy is that National Sandwichery prefers that one of our members continue to do the job for which they pay him...with money...you know the kind you need to buy a new wagon. That job requires out most family circle-needing member to spend the better part of the next week on the road.
The second instinct I have when trouble brews is as deeply routed in my Italian/Eastern European lineage as my junk-heavy trunk and the fact that my eyebrows have been planning a merger since I hit puberty. When I am worried, I want to feed people.
It started normal enough, I wanted to thank Indie Jake's coworker for giving him a lift after the wagon incident. I was going to cook that night anyway. So we had tacos. And maybe I made waaay too much meat but I wasn't sure how hungry he was going to be. And the next day I made a lasagna. A whole big one...for 2 people. But we were both going to be home for a few days and I could take some for lunch and really who doesn't love lasagna...even if it's huge.
As the week got worse the pretense fell away though. When the same coworker was in our living room last night I walked in, looked at him, and in what only seemed like a natural slavic tone said. "I feed you lasagna."
"I feed you lasagna. You eat." and I went into the kitchen.
I'm eating the last of the tacos and lasagna for lunch and dinner today so if you are feeling a bit peckish stop by tomorrow. You never know I might be digging a hole for a worry-pig roast.
...is good. Will put hair on chest. You eat.