On a mission

Nothing says I love you like getting your significant other sick. By that measure, our house is overflowing with love because every week LB gets on a plane and thoughtfully picks up germs from whatever place he’s visiting and then brings them home to me. Somehow he’s become immune after years of exposure to travel germs. At first I wondered why on earth I was getting sick every other week and now it makes total sense.

So last night I was rummaging around in the pantry, searching for something to tempt my suddenly cranky stomach and I realized that we are at serious risk of being killed by peanut butter. Since I haven’t eaten or cooked a meal in my apartment for three months, I trucked the meager contents of my cabinets to his place a few weeks ago so we wouldn’t have to keep buying couscous because somehow I’ve managed to accumulate enough couscous to get us through a nuclear winter. The scary thing, though, is that between the two of us we have like 6 jars of peanut butter. Neither of us really eats peanut butter, so I’m not sure how it happened, but there they are, taking up all kinds of space and edging toward the point when they’ll just get thrown in the trash. LB’s mom likes peanut butter but not even she can get through 6 jars before they get all crusty and gross.

This is why my mission this weekend—once I can stand up without feeling like I’m going to pass out--is to cook and/or bake stuff that involves peanut butter. Then I can bring the results in to work and let the people who actually like a lot of peanut butter eat to their hearts content. Not that I have anything against peanut butter cookies, per se, but I am making a concerted effort not to eat (as much) crap in order to minimize the trauma that will likely be inflicted by the bikini shopping excursion scheduled for this weekend. Fluorescent lights, here I come.