The Dickens’ Dustbowl.

DSC_0286Now let’s get one thing straight right off the bat, here: I am NOT that newlywed girl that sits around burning the roast and oversalting gummy mashed potatoes. Please. My Mama taught me better than that.

Also, this is not 1953 and there are no roasts in my house.

Kellan and I have been married for two months as of today, and to celebrate this auspicious occasion, we’re driving to the airport and getting on separate his-and-her planes. He’s leaving on a business trip, I’m going home to Tarheel country, and we plan to reunite back in the frigid north in twelve days.

Not that anybody’s counting.

The love of my life and I have yet to spend two consecutive weeks of wedded bliss in the same place, which has left a well-beaten path from our front door to the Albany Airport. Now I don’t know if you’re like me, but when I know that I’m leaving town, I spend the last couple of days before my flight attempting to avoid the grocery store and simply use up all of the leftover food in the fridge so that nothing goes to waste. While seemingly thrifty and responsible, this inevitably means that dinner at the Dickens’ house the evening before a trip evolves into something akin to one of those bizarre Chopped challenges. Except instead of making an appetizer in twenty minutes using figs, prosciutto and a leg of lamb, I’m attempting to conjure up a main course out of stale tortilla chip crumbs and one limp carrot.

Disappointment. It’s what’s for dinner.

Call me Martha Stewart without the criminal record and weakness for Guatemalan craft stores. As you might have gathered, I haven’t exactly been a shimmering paragon of wifehood since we said “I do” on March 2nd. In fact, Kellan walked into the kitchen last night, took one look in the fridge and promptly deemed it the “Dickens dustbowl of 1930”.

Welcome home, honey.

In related news, very few people make me laugh as hard as my husband does. This, however, was no laughing matter. Mind you, the delivery was coming from a devastatingly handsome man whose diet was fueled by high fructose corn syrup, artificial dyes and would-you-like-fries-with-that? just a few short months ago. The same man who once googled “how to defrost chicken” after sticking a block of frozen chicken into the oven. [Back off, ladies. I saw him first!] The bar here is not unattainable. …truthfully, I think the bar may simply be “food-on-a-plate”. A paper towel would suffice in a pinch.

Sigh. I think this means that I ought to reevaluate my system before I get chopped.

The good news is, Kellan took me out to breakfast this morning to celebrate two months of “I pick you”, and I am mostly confident that it had nothing to do with the fact that even the chip crumbs were gone.


North Carolina, I’ll see you tonight!

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