So we got to New Hampshire last night. And we didn't have any food. So I had two glasses of white wine and a couple of peanut butter crackers for dinner. Isn't it great? I'm losing weight already!
Of course, my great new figure will be offset by my new malodorous-ness. Because we arrived in New Hampshire when the seacoast was in the middle of a heat wave. And we discovered that we're out of heating oil. Which means that we can't heat the house--and that's OK; see above. But we also can't heat the water.
So baths are limited to the kettle-full-of-hot-water-poured-to-a-sink-of-cold and it's very Amish, and Witness, and all that. And I get to pretend that I'm Kelly McGinnis and That Stud Muffin I Married is Harrison Ford peeking at me, and isn't that sexy?
This would all be great--great new figure, peeking, sexiness. Except Harrison Ford is in the kitchen making ice cream.
I hadn't mentioned it, but I bought an ice cream maker earlier this summer, and he's gone nuts. He. Won't. Stop. Making. Ice. Cream.
We started with Philadelphia Vanilla and then to taste-tested its flavor with the Frozen Custard Vanilla, which was delicious, but then we came back from Paris, where we'd been eating Berthillon like no tomorrow, so he had to try to replicate the Real Caramel from sugar cooked brown in an iron skillet that they serve with a few grains of salt at Angelina's, and then there the Strawberry Marzipan, and James Beard's version of Chocolate (which is a rather light milk chocolate flavor, but it's made with both cooked custard and whipped cream for an amazing mouth feel) and now it's Fresh Peach, and TOO MUCH ICE CREAM.
I ask you.
Who's going to come peek at me as I sponge bathe? Nobody but Sponge Bob.
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