Good morning chickens, and welcome back to Monday morning.
That was fast, huh?
This weekend was full of various activity, including a raucous round of karaoke in this strange VFW hall somewhere on Milwaukee Ave.
I suspect I could not get there again if I tried.
But I sang Third Eye Blind, watched a fair number of hipsters bop around, and came out smelling like 2003.
Apparently the no-smoking rules haven’t hit the VFW yet.
Although I can’t complain too much, I suppose, since it seems like inflation hasn’t either.
All drinks = $3.
I might have to look a little harder for that place again, even if it means potentially listening to someone struggle through a drunk, off-key version of Living La Vida Loca.
Some things are worth the sacrifice.
Also this weekend, I spent some time jumping on and off the floor with a kettlebell, followed by a session of slightly-more-chill yoga than last week’s debacle.
I didn’t fall over just trying to stand up.
However, due to severe protesting of Jillian Michaels’ level-one DVD, Ky insisted on throwing herself on her mat in the middle of every sun salutation.
Eventually, we’ll become zen yogis.
But probably not for a really long time.
The short ribs were easy to make and smelled delicious.
Ditto on the polenta.
In the end though, the short ribs seemed to produce an endless amount of fat (our novice-short rib making skill, I am sure), and we mostly felt shameful about what we’d eaten all night.
The homemade polenta though? Our new jam.
And super easy.
And non-shame inducing.
You should get to that as soon as possible.
I’ll be eating salad all week to compensate for this heart attack inducing meal.
And I’ll also take advice on how to make this more successfully next time.
Up today- I face a rainy January Wednesday without having a temper tantrum and insisting that I stay home instead.
I’ll keep you posted on this one, chickens.