Bossy hasn’t been treating herself to restaurants, and even as she types she knows there is photographic evidence of at least one restaurant in Bossy’s near past, two if you count drinking your lunch, but what Bossy really wants to say is: trust her. She cooks and eats at home and cooks and eats at home and cooks and eats at home and ceats and hooks at ome.
Last night was different, because it was Bossy’s sister-in-law’s birthday. A small collection of friends and family gathered at Bossy’s brother’s house, where they poured over a take-out Thai menu, where poured over equals pour more wine because apparently you need a handful of college degrees to figure out how to order for ten starving people when three are picky kids and one is a vegetarian and the remaining guests are carnivorous drunks.
But when the food arrived, it was like Christmas, where Christmas is unmarked plastic containers filled with Mandarin Chicken Kung Pao and Beef Pad Thai.