I just had a surreal feeling. I got my laundry together to wash, and before I left my room with my laundry basket in hand, I felt the need to look for my Ziploc bag of quarters for the machine. But I don't need it. Such a good feeling.
And the culinary epic continues... Today, I stood perplexed, looking into my skillet, watching my first experiment to go awry do just that. Tater cakes. Or as my cookbook Help! My Apartment Has A Kitchen likes to call them, Mashed Potato Pancakes. Eh, whatever. It was more like Mashed Potatoes Fried And Mashed Again. I'm not good with things you must flip. Well, things that must be cooked from a semi-solid to a solid before they can be flipped. I'm too impatient for that. So after I got back on the horse five times, my sixth tater cake had the decency to at least try to stay together and be one with itself. But oh, the damage I can do with a spatula. It tasted good anyway.
It occurs to me that I need to be taking some pictures. With all the hubbub of getting into the groove of living in an apartment, straightening out the job situation (that remains unstraightened out), and starting class, I somehow managed to not take any pictures, except of myself when I got the haircut. I'm too busy making trips to WalMart for cutting boards, skillets, eggs, and milk. This cooking thing has me enthralled. It just amazes me that I can be hungry, play around on the stove, eat the product, and no longer be hungry. What a novel idea! So I spend time cooking when I'm not even hungry, which is bad. I realize how different Erin (my roommate) and I are. She's a biology major, and I'm an English major. She'll go for a walk or a run, and I fire up the frying pan. But it's going well. We talk a lot. For instance, tonight, we bonded over The OC. She actually got to see all the episodes I missed because of RCC, but neither of us saw the season finale.
Speaking of the delicious Adam Brody, Holly O'Willson called me today from Ireland. It was a pleasant surprise. I almost didn't recognize her because I sure wasn't expecting her to call while she was still traipsing around in Europe. But maybe the seventeen-thousand digits that showed up on my caller ID should have tipped me off.
Well, I'm trying to keep the washing machine functional, and I need to be reading some Wordsworth. Catch y'all on the flipside, homeses.