Sauced

But first, a bit of trivia that I learned the other day. Its one of those you just found this OUT? sorts of things. When I was in Thailand with the military, I had some shirts and other clothes made by local tailors. Ah, memories of waistlines long since gone. One of them was a black silk smoking jacket. I had absolutely no place to wear it, but I liked it because it made me feel cool, suave, sophisticated. (Must have been one hell of a jacket, eh?) I knew that because it was called a smoking jacket, it must have had something to do with the ritual of smoking. What I recently learned was that this was the jacket that a gentleman wore when he and his cronies retired for some casual puffing after a dinner; the reason for the jacket was to wear instead of the normal jacket, so that the aroma, aka the stench, of the smoke wouldn't permeate the jacket one normally wore. I thought that was a neat bit of trivia. I also know why a tuxedo is called that, and what it's really called, if anyone wants to know.

I didn't bake the cake today. We made dinner (more comfort food -- meatloaf), and did some cleaning up, and just didn't quite get around to it. My wife said that she's planning to take down the artificial Christmas tree that sits in an alcove in our kitchen; I asked if she'd mind leaving it up a bit longer. It's a cheerful sight, especially when the room lights are off, and I've felt the need for some cheer of late, for some reason. She agreed to give it a stay of execution for a bit. But speaking of comfort food, my wife's theory is that just about everything that has carbs in it in any appreciable quantity can be used as a comfort food; she's likely right -- which is something I thought about when I came across this site, which is dedicated to one person's pursuit of the perfect lasagna. I've never made lasagna (a dessert one, once, yes; it was a noble effort with minimal results), but I've wanted to -- though not the classic hyperstuffed kind. I'd prefer something small. In fact, one day we brought some home from my mother in laws house, and when she told my wife that it ought to be two, possibly three servings, she laughed and said that with me, it'd be more like six or seven. Her mother was amazed that anyone could eat that little of anything, but especially this. Doesn't he like lasagna? she asked, curiously. My wife said yes, I do -- but I just don't 't like big meals. Her mother was startled. This little thing, a big meal?

But even with that, there's something about the image of someone cooking, particularly the big pot of sauce, all bubbling with basil and oregano and whatnot, that's always appealed to me. It smells like home. Not my home, necessarily; not this home -- but home. Strange, huh?