Swedish Chef(ess?)

Babysitting the nieces, as bb and his wife are out on a "date."

When I came over this morning, I looked up into the crisp, clear blue sky and saw a transparent half-moon. You know the one? The one where it's so stark, yet so diaphanous, so floating up there as if it weighed less than a feather, as if it didn't belong in the sky, yet there it is.

My nieces love to read, so after I cooked them "eggie" and "corn beef hashi" and peeled and cored them apples, I can write this entry as I look at them so transported into their own private worlds.

So then, well, they'll be hungry in a while (children seem to do that: to become hungry again, even after you've fed them), so I've done the dishes from breakfast, and I've prepared what I call "Swedish Chicken," and I've read the recipe somewhere before but I can't for the life of me find it anymore on the web so here it is:

1. package of boneless, skinless chicken breast slices
2. 2 cans of cream of mushroom soup
3. A splash of milk
4. 1 can of french-cut green beans
5. whatever veggies are in the fridge (but don't over do it, I used half a bowl of peas and some pre-sliced mushrooms ... carrots should be okay, I guess)
6. 3 slices of (muenster) cheese

Preheat oven to 350°F. Drain the green beans and in a baking pan mix them with the cans of cream of mushroom soup and the splash of milk. Add in the extra veggies. I carefully laid out the cut mushrooms, but whatever, you know? Layer the chicken on top of that base, then half the cheese slices and lay them on top of the chicken.

Cook until done. I put the timer on an hour, then I'll peek in on that, cover it with tin foil, and then add another half hour on top of that, just to be sure.

It's very important that as you're doing this, you sing: "Urba-shure, dee-dup-dee-dur, lalala-lure, durp-dee-dur, urb-bee-dur-dur-bee-dur-dur bork! bork! bork!" gleefully cavorting about the kitchen and (pretending) to throw about cooking utensils pel-mel.

The result of this is the nieces put aside their precious books and demand to know what I'm cooking for lunch, which I willfully don't tell them. I took great delight in their impetuous need to know and the twenty questions we played (where the rules changed, like, seven times during the game). They still don't know that I'm cooking "Swedish Chicken" for them for lunch, but they still are going to love it when I serve it, all hot and piping from the oven.

All this doesn't mean I'm going all domestic and submissive-femmy, does it?

p.s. Day two alcohol-free