I smelled the most wonder supper being prepared last night. I didn’t even go to the kitchen for fear of interrupting its goodness.
Laura called supper was ready, and I got up and going. As I mentioned a couple times today, I’m walking better every day. Personally, I have a problem being seventy-five and becoming a walker, again.
But, heading toward the table, oh, the aroma! I wondered if it could be fish, which she has done in the past.
And no, she had made breaded pork chops, with mushroom gravy. And green beans. And wow, was it good. A chop apiece. I was awhile getting through mine, but it was too good to put any aside for a better day.
I paid the price in the evening. Supper generally is a much lighter meal. Anything that good in future should to be half as much. Watching was a treat. She cut into her chop and examined it long, with a deep frown. It oozed juice and displayed the tiniest blush of rose. Perfect, I told her, and her shoulders relaxed. Then my cut got the same scrutiny. The terror of the first time you serve up.
I’m not familiar with the contents of most cupboards, but the one I supposed would have held bread crumbs is right above MY coffee shelf, and there isn’t a jar of crumbs there. “You buy bread crumbs today?”, I inquired.
“No. I just emptied your toaster crumb tray.”