Late last night, I got a call. It was my big brother. In his characteristically direct fashion, he said, I’ve been checking your blog and you’re nowhere to be found. I’m calling to be sure you’re still alive.
So if any of the rest of you are wondering, I am, in fact, alive. Since our last meeting, I learned a few important things:
1. A negative 10 windchill is much, MUCH colder than I remembered.
2. Eight degress is the absolute coldest weather I am capable of running in without some kind of special moon suit.
3. I hate snow boarding. Mostly because I suck at it.
Thanks to the great state of Minnesota for these realizations.
Now that I’m back, though, I’d like to catch up on a post I should have written weeks ago, in which my big brother serves me my very first taste of pheasant, part of a gorgeous meal he cooked for me. There was a time, yes, when he wanted to extract my eyes with dull pliers, but not now. Oh no. Now, as a guest in my brother’s house, I am treated to all KINDS of marvelous pampering. He makes me fancy meals (before the pheasant, it was coq au vin), bakes homemade bread and cakes, and always keeps my wine glass full. Forget Charlie Trotter. Just go to my brother’s house.
My brother is a wonderful cook, and his wife and son must be thanked for this fantastic weekend as well. But truth be known, we all have to thank Mom most of all. She refused to cook, and we had to eat. (She’s going to tell you it was OUR fault … sweet, innocent children that we were.) Somewhere in the middle, we both discovered a love of cooking. So thanks, Mom. You’re a genius.