...but tonight, I am sick and congested (call 911!), deeply whiny and just in general a delight to have around. So, while you are due an update on the budget project, and it is coming forthwith, it won't be tonight. Tonight I made this:
In case it's not immediately obvious, it's homemade chicken noodle soup and buttermilk biscuits, both of which are awfully easy to make, and make one feel like death may not be lurking around the next corner.
There's no real recipe for chicken noodle soup in my book, really. I just sweat a couple of onions, some celery and carrots until tender (or teetering towards brown, as someone got too involved in playing Words for Friends...damn you, iPhone!), dump in a quart of stock, a quart of water, some shredded chicken from the failure of a beer-can grilled chicken I attempted this weekend, and let it go for about 20 minutes on a low simmer. Salt and pepper, and if you've got some handy, toss in some shredded Swiss Chard and parsley, and some egg noodles. Continue to simmer until the noodles are the consistency you covet in your soup. Some want mushy, I lean towards a bit more toothsome.
I have to rein myself in when I make this, as the over-the-top foodie in me wants to add wild and crazy dollops and flourishes. Self, I say sternly, that is NOT what chicken noodle soup is for. It is for gentle eating on a tender tummy, or a bowl of comfort when a combination of congestion and fatigue sneak up on you. Step away from the micro-greens and creme fraiche, woman, and calm right the hell down! Now is not the time.
And then you open a cookbook and make some biscuits. I am FAR too ill to type up what I made here now (did you not hear me when I said I was congested?? I need professional medical attention, or at least some tea.), but believe me when I tell you that delightful biscuit recipes abound, and if you pester me, I'll write mine up later when I'm less booger-y.
Now that you've done all that (and taken a semi-arty photo of it, to boot), eat the stuff, read a few chapters of a novel, and then go stuff yourself into bed with a lot of Kleenex and a heaping dose of self pity. Bourbon here is optional, but recommended.