Maybe it's evident from my references to Papa Smurf, but Patrick and I aren't exactly religious. We're not even technically Christian, really. Sure, he was baptized, but now he prays at the altar of logic, reason and Sweet Chili Heat Doritos.
Regardless of such technicalities, I opted to have fish for dinner. Why? Well, no handbook I could find offered anything but fish for Friday menu planning, so I figured it was the norm. Seems everyone of the time was either a) Catholic or b) scared of what the neighbours would think if they weren't.
Patrick had proved me wrong on my liver predictions, but was I pushing it with two disaster-tempting dishes in a row? I had reason to be wary of his dislike of the fish. In all our years together, he would only eat fish if it was:
- Prepared in his lazy college-days style, a tuna casserole that consisted of tuna, noodles, plenty of mayonnaise and cheddar
- Prepared by the world-renowned chef, Captain Highliner
The fish was accompanied with butter-lemon broccoli and pan-fried potatoes. Dessert was "Pot au Creme" which was basically melted chocolate in butter with egg. I put a strawberry on it for fun (and a desperate attempt to scare off the threat of scurvy that was surely threatening us). He enjoyed it all the same ("I don't hate strawberries.").
Just look at that pool of melted fat in the middle of the plate on the left. It seeped from all three parts of the dish. That lard puddle of victory is what I've come to know as a trifatra, a sign that I followed a 50s recipe to the letter.
As you read from my quickie yesterday (presuming you stalk this blog like a good person should), my day involved cleaning and
Uh, where was I?
Oh, right, cleaning that prime piece of real estate that I own. Maybe one day I'll sell it to you for twice what I paid for it, Preppy, so you won't have to drive in from the 905 everyday. (Preppy. Ha. I clearly went to the A.C. Slater School of Taunting.)
Anyway, it was a good day of cleaning that really didn't take *that* much time. It turns out that if you put some effort into cleaning each day, the job isn't that bad.
That sound you just heard was my mother face palming herself - as this is a lesson she has been trying to teach me since I was a fetus. Got it now, mom! At 31. You were right! Buy you a drink?
And that pretty much summed up Day 5 of the 50s Housewife Experiment. We're now into the long weekend. Patrick and I have to organize our locker downstairs (bringing winter stuff down, summer stuff up) and plan for a BBQ with our friends and neighbours, the Dells. Should be dandy - and I will, of course, update you on how the 50s housewife fares with it all.
Happy May 2-4, all!
Image Source: Retroflections