When I came home this evening, I fully intended to spend the night cooking, blogging, and watching The Rachel Zoe Project. My vegetables were sautéed to perfection and my chicken was almost entirely browned when my phone began to ring. The name on the screen made me panic and mutter a few curse words under my breath—mostly because I’ve been playing phone tag for the past few days with this woman but also because I had raw chicken on my hands.
Sounding exasperated, I answered the phone just before the caller heard my six-year-old voicemail message. Forty minutes later, my vegetables were soggy and my chicken was still pink. Though dinner wasn’t gourmet (as if it ever is), it still turned out well, once the chicken was actually cooked.
Blogging and watching mindless television didn’t turn out as I had expected either. This mysterious phone call left quite an impression on me, so I’ve had a lot to think about tonight. And basically I can’t think about anything else. I’ll explain more tomorrow!