It is a comfort food kind of day. But only since I couldn't go punch things.
I'm not currently beating the shit out of some padding at the moment because I am a klutz. Hurrying down the BART station steps in my excitement to be going home at an early time of day (I'd gone into work at way-too-early 6 a.m.), I stumbled down the last few, losing both my shoes, twisting and scraping up both my ankles, and slamming my heel bone down hard on the steel and concrete. Of course, I also looked like an ass in front of a few dozen commuters, but my bruised ego is the least of my worries.
So yes, comfort food. I'm making Alton Brown's Baked Macaroni and Cheese, only I'm using Quinoa Corn pasta, and I didn't have enough cheddar alone so I threw in a bunch of shredded 3-cheese blend that I happened to have on-hand. Topped with the rest of the sauteed onions from this weekend, and we have a dinner.
Fret not, friends: I am icing the bejeezus out of everything podiatral, and hopefully will be fine to work out tomorrow and beyond. Seriously, I need it, both to relieve some built up disappointment and also to get myself looking a bit more svelte for the upcoming NYC trip. (The dream: make the owner of the TARDIS bar fall madly in love with me, and never come back. The reality: just have more room in my pants for lots of eating and drinking.) I should be nothing but jazzed — almost everything is falling into place like a charm — but I'm starting to suspect that I can't go on a vacation these days without somehow incurring some sort of bodily injury to myself. It makes me a little afraid. Please, gods, leave my back out of this one.
Does wine count as comfort food, too? Signs point to Yes.