So yesterday and last night I was still weirded-out by "The Ruins", and again I had nightmares.
My spouse has been under a lot of stress last night, for different, less frivolous reasons. At dinner, I confided, "I feel weird", but before I could go on to describe my state of "The Ruins" induced madness, he interjected, "Me, too! Do you think it could be the croquettes?"
The croquettes? THE CROQUETTES?? How dare you question THE CROQUETTES!! The croquettes in question were a three-day-in-the-making gourmet extravaganza, a Barcelonan recipe I'd been meaning to try for ages. They were painstakingly made by hand and safely stored (day one: create fresh breadcrumbs; day two: create and freeze filling; later, when frozen, cut up filling and dredge into three different things to create outer layer, then refrigerate; day three: fry in good olive oil, drain, serve). May I note that I wash my hands when in the kitchen like a cross between a surgeon and an OCD patient. I am hygienic beyond complaint when it comes to food (although a bit of a slob outside the kitchen).
I barely spoke to him for the rest of the evening. Mind you, the croquettes were fabulous; even he liked them when they were served, although he turned on them again so soon. The man may deserve someone who will just serve Tuna Helper day after day, instead of painstakingly prepared gourmet food (which is what you get from me several days a week; the other days, I make stuff like mac 'n cheese or leftovers).
Anyhow, our scorecard now for "The Ruins" damage is three nights of disturbed sleep and one spat with husband (why would he be so foolish as to imply he got food poisoning from my croquettes? I note that the health of everyone is perfect after having consumed the questioned croquettes), plus one evening of neglecting husband and children while reading "The Ruins". This book stands alone. Apparently Ben Stiller has the film option, although I think he's a bit long in the tooth to play the character he's probably itching to do.
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