T-minus three hours until The Book That Must Not Be Named hits the shelves...of our grocery store...and we at the Potts-McCoy household have just finished our commemorative dinner of home-made fish and chips w/ mooshy green peas.
It seemed an appropriate dish for the evening, and it was awesome, if only for the experience of watching a certain blogmistress scream* every time my deep frying got a little "crackly".**
Now begins the waiting period, and it seems my formerly blasé spouse has somehow been possessed by a twelve-year-old on a Pixie Stix bender. She keeps calling our neurotic tabby "Crookshanks" and I think she just tried to use the Imperius curse on me so's I'd do the dishes.
Okay, that last sentence isn't true, but still: it's adorable.
* Yes, scream. Not a yelp, not a gasp, but a full-throated scream. Often with the highly amusing jumping backwards and throwing of hands in front of her face.
**Hey, you want that authentic beef-fat-fried taste, you gotta throw some beef stock into the vegetable oil, fire hazard be damned. Besides, I totally had a pot of water I was using for the peas to put out any grease fires.