It's no secret that the husband is the primary cook. I'm not bad but, you know. I'm the one that can get you fed. He's the one who can make you fall in love all over again.
But boy, I was mighty proud when I made a basic, homemade, homegrown tomato sauce on my own, as evidenced above.
The thing is, I seem to live life with my head half in the clouds, all of the time. So I get easily distracted when following recipes, either line-by-line or word-for-word, step-by-step, hand-in-hand. Because I'm thinking of, I dunno, rainbows and My Little Ponies.
But don't be fooled, the husband isn't a saint either. A couple days ago I halfheartedly said I was going to make a sauce. I think I was trying to convince myself that I was going to. Saying it out loud seemed to make the intention more of... an intention. But knowing how I historically don't love to cook, he immediately piped in with: No, don't worry, sweet precious buttercup of mine*, I'll make the sauce for you. See the kind of man he is? (Enabler.)
Anyway, while he was out, I did it. I did it! I went ahead and did it. I put the water to boil, cleaned the late-bloomin' tomatoes, chopped the garlic, heated the oil, fried 'em garlic golden, blanched the tomatoes, peeled the tomatoes, and put it all together until they were nice and friendly.
And it wasn't bad. In fact, it would've been pretty good, if I hadn't overcooked the pasta. Sigh. Ah well.
Damn you My Little Ponies.
(* Note: As sweet as he is, he didn't actually call me his blah-blah buttercup. But the unicorns told me to put it in anyway.)