I did a fair amount of cooking on Monday. Not because it was Memorial Day, really, but because I had the day off from work. Work, which is spent primarily preparing and cooking food.
It’s a good thing I like to cook.
Anyway, there were a few things I needed from the store. I scribbled a short list for Bill, as he was heading out to get a few things for the garden.
My list included a gallon and a half of whole milk (I wanted to make another batch of mozzarella. I realized the other day that I’ve missed making cheese. I really need to get back to that.), something else that I don’t remember but it was probably something basic like eggs or butter, and I asked for some cheap blue cheese.
Initially I thought I was going to make a hearty pasta salad, full of things like fresh asparagus, smoked mussels, black beans, shredded chicken, and who knows what else. I thought little bits of blue cheese would add to the whole hearty, intense mixture.
While Bill was gone I puttered around. I cooked the black beans that had soaked overnight. I cooked the garlic scapes I’d picked earlier in olive oil, salt and pepper. I cleaned out the fridge and did dishes.
And when Bill returned, he brought in three half gallons of local whole milk, the other thing I’d asked for, whatever it was…and a wedge of Great Hill Blue.
He said something about hoping that was what I’d wanted, what I’d meant by “deep blue” and I looked at him without understanding for a moment.
Then the light bulb switched on.
“I wrote cheap blue cheese! I just wanted to add it to the pasta salad….”
He thought “deep blue” was my way of asking for a really good blue cheese. He looked at Stilton, but decided it was too “deep” and opted for the Great Hill – which happens to be a favorite of ours.
It seems there are benefits to bad handwriting.