No gratzi, gratin

This was my first two days in a row off since my return from visiting family, and how did I choose to relax? By clearing chard scraps from the sink drain, of course.

I am the only person I know who likes to clean the kitchen. I feel a little guilty about this, like I regularly do the vacuuming in high heels and pearls. I'm that princess next door that is terribly nice but who no one can stand because she says things like "Gosh, I just ADORE cleaning my bathroom every morning!" and "I wouldn't DREAM of serving my family anything that came in a box!" But it's the honest truth -- I love the slip of the sponge across a counter, the splash of warm, soapy water on a plate.

The rest of the house is a total, unmitigated wreck. I don't even pretend to try anymore.

Obviously, I also love to cook. This is regarded slightly less suspiciously, although my roommate -- who has known me for almost eight years -- still tells me how sorry he is that I "have" to do the cooking.


I love to cook. It's right up there with sex and chocolate. There are few places I'd rather be than the kitchen. Even in other people's houses, I want to hang out in the kitchen. They can put me to work. I don't mind.

And it's a damn good thing I feel that way, or I'd have to chalk up this morning's endeavors as a total loss.

Swiss chard gratin sounded so promising. I made my own bechamel sauce, with cow's milk instead of the vegan oat milk suggested. I used the optional egg. I sprung for the fancy Comte in place of a lowly Swiss cheese or parmesan. But the results are...not unappealing, precisely. I mean, I'll eat it. Not even Josh hated it, and Josh is very particular. I'm just not bowled over, and with the amount of work that went into this, I wanted to be a little moved.

I think, frankly, that I used the wrong chard -- red chard was not the way to go -- and it would have been altogether more impressive with spinach instead.

At least the kitchen is clean.