Chicken Bella

No, I don't have a pretty chicken, or even a picture of one. But Jed and I ate lunch at Ruby Tuesday's today, and I had a dish called Chicken Bella. It was enough to turn one into a gourmet, or even a gourmand. Grilled chicken with a parmesan sauce full of baby portobello mushrooms and artichokes. Not fond of broccoli? Just dip an edge of it in that sauce and wow! And mashed potatoes with chives, white cheddar and bacon bits. And when we were finished, our waitress had the nerve to mention cheesecake. If I ate like that every day, I would get terminally enormous, but I'd die happy.

Yesterday Jed came over, and we discussed and made a list of everything we needed for a garden to plant my poor tomato and pepper plants: how many cubic yards of dirt (he's a whiz at turning 4 x 8 x .5 feet into cubic yards without a pencil and paper), whether to choose a wood or brick frame, how to keep the crows and squirrels out. Suddenly Jed said, "Do we really want to do this?" And I said, "Heck, no, I wish I had never planted the rotten little seeds. Let's put the tomatoes and peppers in planters. We'll plant the flowers around the mailbox and let them fend for themselves." So that's what we did.

Then after a supper of peanuts, leftovers, and the meatloaf I made Friday night, we watched "Legends of the Fall," which neither of us had seen in years, and which is one of the best movies ever made. (Sister Trois gave me the DVD one day last week. She's a good kid.)