. . . I cooked.
This turned out to be the division of labor this weekend, once our friend Steve arrived (just in time for the rain to start, good thing we had a chance to get the sheetrock onto the porch first!) on Saturday.
The world knows of my Farm Wife ambitions, apparently ;->
So apart from a couple of stints standing on a ladder and holding some of the larger, more awkward pieces of sheetrock, I got off easy this weekend. (Aside from cleaning up sheetrock plaster that had tracked all over the place -- and doing so not once, but twice. Nasty stuff. Thank god we don't have carpets, and thank god for Murphy's oil soap!)
So I did what any other girl would do, in my position, and slow-roasted a duck. Because what else would take 6 hours, but require like 20 minutes of actual work? (This scenario sort of reminds me of my job, but that's another tale for another place and time).
I cranked up the oven to 450, threw the duck (salted and peppered and with an onion and its neck stuffed inside to help it stay moist, covered with aluminum foil) in for 15 minutes. Cranked the oven down to 225 and walked away for 2 hours. Two hours is enough time to hold some pieces of sheetrock up against the ceiling, fold 2 loads of laundry, and read the bad story in the New Yorker, it turns out. Then I peeled some carrots and beets (the last of the garden pull!) plus some inferior store-bought turnips and parsnips and pearl onions. I tossed these with salt, drained off the fat that had rendered from the duck (saving just enough to barely coat the veggies) and threw them in the pan. Recovered the whole thing and put it back in for 2 more hours. Two hours is also enough time to do the NYT Friday crossword, hang out with the guys for the lengthy cheese and wine break they took before commencing taping and plastering (which requires less motor skill than screwing in sheets of sheetrock overhead, apparently), and make a salad and dressing for dinner.
The aforementioned break apparently wasn't figured into the Estimated Finishing (ie dinner) time. So I moved the vegetables out of the duck fat and into a coverable le Creuset, drained the fat, and uncovered the duck so it would brown. Started a fire in the fireplace, started finishing the Pouilly Fuisse (as an aside, how adorable are two men who can do a construction project and then come downstairs and debate philosophical points while eating camembert and drinking Pouilly Fuisse?) Took a little snooze by the fire. Turned the oven to the minimum and re-covered the duck. Finished finishing the Pouilly Fuisse. Sauteed some zuchini with shitake mushrooms. . . set the table. . . . We finally sat down at 9 pm -- yes, 7 hours later. What a strenuous day I had ;->
Some more winedrinking ensued with dinner, and sitting by the fire. Needless to say we left all the duck-dish greasiness in the sink and the plaster-dust dustiness tracked all over the place until morning. At which point (second cup of coffee time) my parents called, saying they were on their way back from New York to Vermont and should they stop by (we're exactly halfway). I, delighted, said "sure!" Then took a look around. Uh-oh, and Steve is on his way back to finish the plastering and they'll ALL get here just in time for lunch and we'll want to strongarm my folks, and Steve, into staying for lunch because they'll get along so well and we'd love my folks to stay for lunch anyhow so they don't have to get home at 2 pm hungry with an empty fridge.
So, I took another jar of ratatouille out of the freezer, threw it in a bowl of lukewarm water in the sink, dispatched Philippe to go get more bread, and tackled the dishes and the tracked plaster dust (did I mention how Murphy's is my friend?). By the time everyone arrived (at about the same time!) we were ready to strongarm the whole crew (after P and Steve had to go to the hardware store) into having some sausage and ratatouille and more salad (the arugula refuses to die!).
It turns out that ratatouille actually freezes pretty well. Since I wasn't sure, I just froze the two jars, alas. But next year I'll freeze more. This will also help take care of the problem that we get awfully sick of ratatouille when its ingredients are in season. In November, of course, it's wonderful, and you wish you could make/had made tons more. . .
Another culinary hurdle was passed this weekend, too, in that we ate the first of our canned tomatoes. I'm always a bit afraid that someone will die from eating my home-canned food (despite my stringent selection of tomatoes, copious boiling, and 30-minute processing time). But it gets easier once the first jar is out of the way. . . I threw the tomatoes into the lentil soup I made while the guys were putting the second coat of joint compound on, upstairs. (during which time I, um, napped some more, yeah.) Later, we ate soup in front of the fire -- How I love eating soup in front of the fire! And we felt like we were playing hooky, too, since it was Sunday night and there we were in front of the fire, not dodging deer on the Taconic to drive back to the City. Never mind that that only meant we had to get up crack-of-dawnish to get back to work this morning. . . .
Actually, there was NO traffic this morning. Most people seem to be already focussed on Thanksgiving. Any my customers? Suddenly the "if they need wine they're bound to call" rule comes into play. They call, I place their orders, that's the deal. I'll return to the Mad Scramble for Business Share next week. This week, they're too busy to want to talk to a salesperson unless they need something. Which I feel (sort-of, guiltily) okay about.
(ps, the tool set was a big hit; the drill, at least, was in constant use all weekend. P started thinking about some other home improvement he can do himself! Next stop, redoing our bathroom -- that is, with a little help from our friends/an electrician/a plumber. . . .)