So, here’s where I spend most of my time these days. Our new kitchen has a big shiny fridge and an awesome gas stove. And although it’s not as much fun to cook for just Adam and I (we greatly miss bringing our leftovers to Liz and Ziad), I’ve been digging into bagfuls of booty from Trader Joe’s and whipping up two-bean burrito bowls with smoked corn and ricotta-yogurt cream; basil-stuffed egg white omelets; and Parmesan paninis on multigrain muffins. Between cooking and digging through piles laundry and sweeping up dust kitties under the couches, I’ve remembered that yes, once I wanted to be a housewife when I grew up. I guess I forgot.
