Weekend Smörgåsbord

Sometimes a weekend is so thoroughly remarkable in its banality, it deserves to be written about, but only with Swedish punctuation (ah, admirable Swedish dots and circles). Unfortunately, Friday was marred by a late evening at work. Dinner was reheated leftovers (pre-frozen in bulk by me) and I think I watched Super Nanny.

Saturday, in its banality, was all business (thanks for making it to the second paragraph after my admission of watching Super Nanny). Serious run in the morning. Pick up photo at Walgreens that they hadn't developed. And argue with Restoration Hardware staff on why it would behoove them to sell me the couch I wanted, while applying the discount the 35 coupons I had bought off of three different vendors on Ebay would give. They didn't.

In addition to Restoration Hardware's employment of customer servants with large deficits of customer service skills, Restoration Hardware's jpegs also have an excessive amount of surrounding white space.

They didn't, so I curse them by hoping they never derive any pleasure from reading anyone's food blog, ever. I was mentally discouraged, so mustered enough courage to enter a restaurant with communal dining, my local fish and chips place, Eamonn's. (PS, I have actually wanted to eat here forever, but vowed never to go alone because eating fried fish alone is the culinary equivalent of entering a brothel, but I ran in the morning, so felt some sort of entitlement.) The helpful order-receiver was a friendly Irishman with a bristly mustache who put me at ease. I ordered a small order of cod and a small order of chips. Thankfully he asked if I wanted chips, because I wasn't sure if ordering chips when I call them fries was the preferred method of ordering (I would have likely stood there for a minute deciding whether to call them chips or fries, so thankfully he made it a yes or no question). I snagged a seat at a mirrored bar and watched myself eat and tried to read the menu on the chalkboard behind me backwards in the mirror.

My lunch was delicious--the chips/fries/salted, thin potato sticks were perfectly crisp. And the fish was so wonderful. When something is remarkably tasty, all I can think to myself is that it tastes like candy. The batter was thick and chewy, but still a bit crispy, and the fish was fresh and juicy and flavorful. I ate it plain some bites, sprinkled a bit of malt vinegar on other bites, and on some bites, dipped it in my curry sauce (see below).

I got a beer because the 35 unused Restoration Hardware coupons in my pocket made me do it. Also, the slightly disgusted voice of the Irishman who told all nature of yuppie Alexandrians and tourists that they were in a "fish and chips place, we sell fish and chips" started to get on my nerves, after I stopped laughing.

Then I went to Tyson's Corner and bought my couch and relieved myself of the albatross-like coupons in my pocket (metaphorical neck; plus, I got my discount).

Sunday was notable food-wise for a few different reasons. First my mom sent me photos of dinner rolls she made. Sundays are days for dinner rolls, even if you only look at digitized versions of them.

My friend Sue and I met up for brunch. However, we pre-brunched at her new apartment and ate a homemade breakfast roll each. She was kind enough to give me some, which I took home and photographed. Poor exploited rolls.

Afterwards, we went to OHOP (Original House of Pancakes), left because it was too busy, and legitimately brunched (or second breakfasted) at Starbucks, each having oatmeal and coffee. It was lovely: we discussed all manner of lovely girl things in big green velour chairs.

Then I had Sunday dinner, because lunch was an unsatisfying mix of a Special K bar/nuts that been uneaten for 2 months/veggie crisps, because I needed sustenance while at work. I photographed, more to chronicle the irony of my dinner than to delight in it:


My dinner included feta cheese, tomato sauce, fresh basil and Kalamata olives, all served with pasta. With a side of bread and butter pickles. The two defrosting containers are my meals for the beginning of the week, the righthand container being spaghetti squash with Mediterranean accoutrements, the lefthand container being some obscene pasta mix from two weeks ago that was frozen and forgotten. My weekend was productive, staid, and mostly adult (I did spend last night putting together pressed wood furniture while watching Miss America), but I can delight in the fact that I got everything done before the second installment of PBS's Wuthering Heights broadcast. And if that doesn't challenge one's banality, I don't know what will.