Thursday evening, I just couldn't come home and face the inevitable, "what's for dinner?"
In my valiant, yet vain attempts to fight off this cold. . .the cold that makes my throat feel as a repository for phlegm saturated cut glass I noticed I was quite tired.
Sitting in my office, waiting for Stephen to finish his 4.00-5.20 class, the realization of how tired I really was hit me like a wrecking ball tearing down a building.
Leaving me capable of doing nothing more than watching the latest episode of Glee with Em.
Clearly not capable of manipulating and maneuvering knives and stove tops.
Out for dinner it was.
The other inevitable question: Where?
Swiss Chalet closed until the last week in March.
And downtown a complete and utter no go unless we all wanted to get our St. Patrick's Day drink on.
I didn't.
Stephen, maybe.
Em. . .not even the opportunity to contemplate.
While Fredericton has many charms, many attributes, reasons for tourists to flock to our fair city during the summer and fall months, we do lack in the variety of restaurants you would find in larger city centers.
Certainly, in the last decade, things have improved.
We have Caribbean, Indian, Mexican restaurants.
Your standard Chinese, English pub style restaurants.
And the sodium and fat inducing fast food fare, such as McDonald's, KFC, Burger King, etc.
However, most of the good, non-chain or nicer places are located downtown.
Add our Simply For Life restrictions, and eating out can be a hazardous affair.
Stephen, always ready to take on a challenge, called our SFL counsellor and asked about the places we could go.
And because we wanted to avoid the drunken St. Paddy's Day revelers, this left us with two choices:
The Lincoln Big Stop, which is a lovely place, however, I just didn't feel like driving to Lincoln and back for a meal.
Or. . . .
Jungle Jim's.
I have to admit to being a bit of a restaurant snob.
There are some places I'm not all that thrilled about patronizing.
I had been to a Jungle Jim's with my dad a couple of years ago.
It wasn't bad.
But I didn't leave with the burning desire to go back.
Last night, however, it was eat at Jungle Jim's or go home and root through the fridge for leftovers I could throw together.
And everyone was excited about going out for dinner and going to Jungle Jim's.
I didn't want to be, as Em likes to say, the "Debbie-downer."
Hello, Jungle Jim's.
Thursday is Buy One Steak, Get the Other Half Price Night.
New York Strip Loin.
I was skeptical.
Again?
Still?
But, steak was one of the SFL choices, so steak it was.
Ordering with Stephen is ALWAYS a challenge.
Inevitably, as soon as we are seated, I hear the, "Oh crap! I forgot my glasses in the car!"
And if he isn't feeling the need to retrieve his spectacles, I have to read the menu for him.
I used to have to read the menu for the kids.
Occasionally, I have to read it for my mother.
Reading it for my soon-to-be-50-year-old-husband is something I would prefer to do much less of.
I did use it to my advantage, however.
Having decided on steak, the next challenge, always the challenge, with Stephen, is to veer him away from ordering it well done.
Eat the bottom of your shoes.
It's less expensive.
And probably tastes better.
However, I wasn't able to bring him around to having it rare, either.
Compromise lead us to medium well, meaning the steak didn't have the juices cooked completely out of it, retaining some flavour, and not looking like someone's old boot.
I had mine rare.
I wanted blue.
Unfortunately, Stephen made it very clear, supported by the Peanut Gallery (aka Emily) that I'd be sitting alone if I ordered a blue steak.
The "just-bring-me-the-cow-and-I'll-bite-off-my-own-steak", steak.
Rare it was then.
But it was somewhat overcooked.
I didn't send it back, however, because it took long enough to get it in the first place.
Nonetheless, for someone with a BBQ. . . .
. . .a gross error that WILL be rectified shortly. . .
. . .any steak, even a slightly overdone rare steak is better than no steak at all.
Last weekend we went for our first the-sidewalks-are-clear-walk.
And if memory serves, I did so in Birkenstocks because I didn't want to wear my boots, and, alas, my sneakers were MIA.
How come, you ask?
Because Stephen gave them away to the Salvation Army.
I've noticed a trend, pattern in Stephen's approach to my stuff.
Give it away.
Cookie sheets for example.
My sneakers.
One day I expect to wake up at the Salvation Army with a price tag on my forehead.
Hopefully for more than. . .
. . .or at the very least. . .
.99 cents.
With tax.
Hence, he had to replace them.
My logic is that if he actually has to pay for them, to carry in his conscious brain how much they put him out, he'll think twice before giving them away.
Or if I'm really lucky, he'll think once.
I had just gotten them where I wanted them, too.
Off to The Shoe Company for a pair of Skechers Shape-Ups.
Pink Skecher Shape-Ups
I've heard some people say they loved them.
Others did not even remotely like them.
Me?
I like to figure such things out for myself.
And I've wanted a pair from the first time I saw the advertisements.
Apparently, I will be able to work out just by walking around in them.
I don't consider myself that gullible, but, I like a challenge.
Coupled with the yoga, I may actually be able to stand straight and touch my knees before I'm 65.
Title Lyric: S.T.E.A.K by Peelander
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