I was going to blog about the sweet potato waffles that were so good I thought about making them for dessert tonight. (If you make them, add the sweet potato, I don't think the recipe ever says to, and for heaven's sake whip the egg whites and fold them in. We're not heathens. You should never not whip the egg whites when you make waffles. Your life is better with whipped egg whites. Trust me.)
And I was going to tell you about the brain bread cooked on my still-new pizza stone; I discovered, when I cut it to determine if it was done, that it took on a very two-hemisphere look to it. Plus it had roasted apples and pecans.
Then there was the fried rice with kale and coconut chips. This is like a party in your mouth.
Why, you ask, am I eating so healthfully? I realized when I put on my old, non-elastic temple dress a few weeks ago that I am getting fat. Since I can't stick to rules for a long period of time and I can't stick to anything without having good motivation (usually it's I don't want to suck it at long-distance running), I made up my own program. I come up with a rule that I have to abide by for a week -- no sugar, no eating after dinner, eating so many vegetables a day that I have no room for anything else -- and every week I accomplish this task, I put $25 in my travel-somewhere-exciting fund. I'm now about a tenth of a plane ticket closer to Italy! Or Brazil, or Spain, or Greece, or wherever I most feel like next spring/early summer when I'm buying said ticket.
But now I have something truly important to write about -- the supreme awkwardness that is going to a singles dance at age 32. 'Cause, you know, it wasn't weird and uncomfortable enough at age 15, when you're supposed to be awkward.
Here's how the night went. Two people commented on my salad (spinach, romaine, blackberries, coconut chips, coconut milk and lime juice mixed as dressing). I actually did not make it to show off -- much. My primary motivation was getting rid of my spinach before it went bad. I also put it in a throwaway container so I could sneak out and leave nothing behind if needed.
I put on my name tag -- I even used my real name -- and all 30 of us found seats along the 120 or so chairs in the giant empty cultural hall that was set up so there was so much room for dancing. About halfway through awkward dinner I realized we were supposed to be talking, right about the same time as the woman across the table from me realized the same thing.
Then the conversation started. I thought the guy kittycorner from me asked if I needed a mechanic; after I said no, he said he was a heavy duty mechanic. I spent two minutes soliloquizing on sweet potatoes. We wondered who thought having a dance was a good idea. We got harassed by the married couple in charges of the singles for actually dancing.
And yes, I even danced -- you know, that weird shaking and moving my arms and legs not in unison while I tried to find the beat to a variety of music, the most recent of which may have been "Billie Jean." This is the hazard of having a dance when the age range covers about five decades. It reminded me that dancing is so much easier when everyone around me is, ahem, toasted. I don't have to drink to enjoy drinking people.
It also reminded me that I hate dancing, so when I plan my singles activity for two weeks from now, there will be no dancing, and there will be pie. And even if no one shows up, I'll have a fun Saturday night with a fork and blueberry-apple pie.