Raw Nerve

It's been a rough week. Erin and I are trying to get back in the swing of school and homework and responsibilities, she had braces installed on Thursday, I have PMS, the weather is unpredictable, the dog smells like fish oil, and Scott has had evil noxious gas for a week running. I thought to myself, "Self," I thought, "You should do something special for dinner tonight."

So I went to the bookstore and picked out a cookbook for something special. Something that Erin and I both love (not Scott, but really, he can suck it up). Something that takes time and love and artistic intuition. Something raw and spicy.

Then, of course, because it's necessary to do these things right, I had to buy a fancy (read: sharp) new knife. (A certain Nepali who shall remain unnamed used my 8" Santoru as a cleaver and knocked giant chunks out of the previous fancy sharp knife. I also bought a cleaver so that won't happen again.) Also, a bamboo rolling mat. Some new chopsticks. Some soy dipping trays. And a few grocery bags full of weird veggies, fish parts, dried fish parts, pureed fish parts, and seaweed.

I babysat the rice. (No one thought to mention to me that sushi rice takes TWO HOURS TO COOK PROPERLY? THAT'S INSANE.) I boiled fish flakes and shiitake mushrooms in sweet cooking vinegar. I carved cucumbers into exactly equal spears. I peeled avocados. I sliced and diced and steamed and mixed and squeezed and boiled and stirred and dipped and rolled and garnished and arranged and rearranged and arranged again. I was awfully proud. It was awfully pretty.



And Erin? ... spent the night at a friend's house.