Sunday mornings
Chez Toulouse are an occasion worth looking forward to - we grocery shop at our local farmer's Aldi, then come home and clean the apartment to our favorite Judy Garland and Fleetwood Mac records. It's the Lord's day and I intend to do whatever the hell I want with it. Neighbors bedamned! Gin rickeys, holistic toilet bowl cleaner and
The Man that Got Away sound like a Sunday-Funday to me. While I scoop the litterbox and work on my vibrato, a homemade marinara sauce usually simmers away on the stove. My hot Italian blood is only good for two things: exaggerated emotional outbursts and one helluva pasta sauce. I don't believe in jarred sauce, but I do believe in spending just as much and working twice as hard on sauce that basically tastes the same. In my poorer years, I lived on pasta and Ragu. Now that I'm a grown man with love handles, I try to consolidate my carb-intake to one night of the week. This ever-romantic weekend tradition is known as Pasta Sunday at my house. When all my chores are done, my plus-one and I slip into our best elastic-waisted bottoms and plop our fatasses down in front of a movie I rented from the lib'ary. That's amore!
