Bill Buckner. Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. Ladies, if you’d like to know the story, ask a man, ANY man to tell you. But, if he’s from Boston and you want to make him happy, drop it. Don’t say a word.

My lack of recent posts doesn’t mean that I haven’t been cooking.  It means that everything I’ve made lately has either looked or tasted ugly.  Luckily for me, I married a Red Sox fan, who understands that the best part of a slump is the return to normalcy and eventually, maybe even a ray of hope once every sixty years or so.  (I should tell you that I’m not an educated sports fan.  I go to events for the beer and the companionship, so my knowledge of a standard Red Sox slump is measured by my husbands mood swings during baseball season.)

Here’s what hasn’t been reportable from my kitchen:  a totally forgettable white bean chicken chili made in the slow cookah while we were at soccer practice.  Meh.  Sautéed parmesan chicken cutlets served over green salad with lemon vinaigrette.  Sounds better than it was.  Pasta for the girls while we went out.  We ate those leftovers the next night.  Hard to screw up buttered pasta with parmesan.

Last night, with all of the previous evenings failures behind me and lots of avocados and great spinach, I was going to get us out of this slump with a classic Cobb salad which never fails.  But when 7 p.m. rolled around that idea turned into bacon, egg, tomato and avocado sandwiches.  A total Hail Mary (not sure if there’s a baseball equivalent), but it turned out to be our best dinner in days.

Look for great things in the next few days.  Or send us a pizza.

– Catherine

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