Last night was amazing in the way that nights like last night are amazing if you’ve lived in New York long enough (because if you’ve lived in New York long enough, you’ve had weeknights that end at 3:30 AM when you finally leave the tenth bar of the night and pour yourself and your stilettos into a cab and you seriously keep it together in the swerving dodging car and drunkenly text people and by people I mean exboyfriends and you’re so drunk and exhausted when you get home that you barely notice your roommate has that weird stinky guy over and even though you hear him ANSWER HIS CELLPHONE while he’s having sex with her, you just don’t care because you’re stumbling to the bathroom to throw up roughly seven cosmopolitans and in the morning, you realize that there’s a slow trail of your clothes and belongings from the front door to your bed and WHAT, you’ve never had that night?!)
So last night was amazing in the way that can only really been amazing if you’ve been in that bar/cab/bedroom. Because Stuart met me at the subway station at 6:30, after my post-work coffee with Kate, and we walked to Key Food where, for some reason, I wasn’t in my usual run-around-by-stuff-Type-A sort of mood. We wandered up and down the aisle, we danced around in the deli line, I squealed when I found my favourite pickles, and after 20 minutes, we left with everything we needed for BLTs.
That’s right – we went home and made bacon-lettuce-tomato sandwiches on baguettes. Only mine had cheddar and mustard and his had salad cream. I drank two glasses of a mediocre bottle of medoc, and Stuart experimented with some boutique IPA. While he cooked the bacon, I did half the crossword in New York Magazine, and then while I cleaned up, he did the other half. Which means our cooking-cleaning conversations, from kitchen to dining room table, went something like this:
K: “Dude, I can’t get this one. Blowgun missile, D something something something?”
S: “Uh, dart.”
K: “That was obvious, huh.”
S: “Yeah.”
S: “Oscar winner, ’76, ’84, ’98? It’s something, A, C, K, something, I..”
K: “something, ACKI, something..?”
S: “Oh, Jack Nicholson?”
K: “Yeah, for One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Terms of Endearment, and As Good as it Gets.”
S: “Whoa.”
K: “Kruschev’s first name?”
S: “No idea.”
K: “Nikola?”
S: “Doesn’t work.”
K: “NIIII-CO-LAAAAA.”
S: “It’s not Nikola.”
K: “OH, NIKITA.”
S: “You sure that’s not his wife?”
K: “Shut up.”
After dinner, we watched Alias and during the commercials, I talked his ear off about last season’s cohesive plotline that’s FINALLY come back to roost (can I get a what-what for Sark reappearing? WHAT-WHAT.) and told him all about the Rimbaldi plotline and why Sloane is such a bad-ass turncoat. I watch Alias not just because it’s a decently good show and Michael Vartan is HOT and I love the daddy-daughter plotlines, but also because I have lost Buffy and my soul deeply misses the sight of girls kicking serious ass so Alias is all I have left to hold on to, damnit.
So the thing about making BLTs for dinner and watching Alias and doing the crossword is, it’s the kind of thing you can do in any city which begs the question, if you live in New York City and stay home on winter nights to eat BLTs and watch Alias, do you really deserve to live in the city? And what I’m saying is, I need to be able to shun the drunken bright lights and stay at home with my baby and eat BLTs and watch Alias and do the crossword, because I know that if 2 AM rolls around and I need to throw down, I can go to a club. Or, you know, order Thai. Whatever.
So that’s what was amazing about last night.
Plus, homemade BLTs rock my face right the hell off.