The restaurant has only been open a week, but they have been busy every single night. It’s a good problem to have, I’m sure, but it has made for some long days and very late nights for my husband, and some bleary-eyed morning commutes for this restaurant widow. I was incredibly happy to have Mike home on Monday and to fix him a special dinner (complete with wine poured from an actual bottle), but as delicious as our starter of sauteed morels and main course of yogurt-marinated roast lamb loin were, I could barely bring myself to eat much of either.
I’ve actually been struggling to get myself to eat anything these days. I’m not sure if it’s caused by this persistent case of the blues, the crummy weather, the fact that I can not bear to look at one more runny egg or package of pasta in my kitchen, or something else. I’ve all but given up on breakfast. Lunches have been hastily gobbled, and more often than not abandoned midway through. I stood at the refrigerator when I got home from work last night trying desperately to figure out what to make myself for dinner, but I came up blank – no appetite, no inspiration.
With shaking hands I tore off a nub of pita and scooped up a bite of Shayma‘s wonderful (and contest-winning) Borani, followed that with a chunk of a cold, roasted creamer potato left from Monday night, then a dab of chevre and a slug of Bandit, and then I sat at the kitchen table watching the rain, counting the hours until next Monday. It can’t come soon enough.