I’m sitting at Marc’s candlelit dining room table as he walks from the stove to the bookshelf. “When you braise, do you cover? I forget. Is pork at 160?” He flips through cookbooks.
“Why are you asking me? I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
Black Eyed Peas is playing in the background. My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump. Lulu is on the brown cowhide, gnawing on a bone. After kissing and nuzzling with me, she returns to the bone. She dismisses the boxful of dog toys.
Marc has set out a plate of apples and another with some kind of soft cheese and Carr crackers. He says he has a lot of work to do, but he’s fluttering around the kitchen over potatoes and the braised pork.
Glee in twenty minutes!