I was feeling a bit melancholy tonight. Last night, I had plans with some friends for a girls' night. I was looking forward to this; I hadn't had much time for chatting with women over wine since we moved. It was perfect timing, too; my husband was supposed to work late. Only he ended up getting off early, so I left him on the couch with ESPN for my dinner with the ladies. It was a wonderful evening, and I looked forward to seeing him for dinner the next day.
I spent the afternoon prepping for one of our favorite Sunday dinners: Roasted Chicken. I would serve it with individual Tomato Tarts, roasted potatoes with lots of fresh herbs and green onions, and a green salad. I had finished everything and was waiting for him to let me know when he would be home so I could put the chicken in the oven, when his text arrived: "eat without me." It wasn't a huge surprise, nor hugely disappointing. Such is the life of a chef, and I am long since accustomed to it.
Still, I was a bit melancholy. The tomato tartlets were in the oven already since they take a while and don't need to be served hot. I wrapped the chicken back up in its butcher paper and put it in the fridge, along with the potatoes, and reveled in the fact that Monday night's dinner was made. However, this meant I could go to yoga and still turn out a lovely dinner; the two are too often mutually exclusive.
My dinner for tonight was reinvented as tomato tartlet with green salad. A perfect and ladylike dinner, the kind I used to eat all the time when I was single, but that are too dainty for a man and so make rare appearances. My mood had lightened: no longer melancholy, I tried to enjoy the peace and quiet that descends on me and the dog as I sip my wine before dinner. It's my favorite time of evening, the last rays of sun dappling my yard, a gorgeous pink tint to the light. I'll enjoy this night for what it is, and appreciate even more my Monday night Roast Chicken with the best possible company.