I invited my friend and neighbor Rachel over for dinner with her husband Jaff and their daughter Hidaya. (That's them above with David and the kids)
We just love these guys and I saw Rach in the hall this morning and she had big, big big news and we wanted to get together, so we tried to concoct something spur of the moment. Which is always the best way.
So I thought of a great dinner dish and went out this morning and shopped and came back to the kitchen and laid everything out and did some prep ahead of time and was feeling good about how ahead of the game I was and that made me feel a little super-mom-ish and I was even contemplating an impromtu shower and maybe working a little more on my book proposal because yes, I'm writing books for my clients, but I also started a book proposal for my own book which I have neglected to mention to you, but will write a post about soon since I could use your ideas and input and the process has been funny and interesting.
I'm feeling good. On a roll. Ahead of the game. Chest beating with pride and self-accomplishment. Dinner was in the bag. And I was up to my elbows working the marinade into the meat and thinking about how good it's all going to taste and what side dishes to serve. And then, I realize it. I'm a complete ass.
Rachel is Jewish. And Jaff is Muslim.
I'm serving them pork.