happy anniversary

Marital Bliss is the Spice of Life (But Cumin Doesn’t Hurt)

Astute minions and those who, unlike the human female, can count past five may have noted two very important facts.

1. There are now over 1,900 entries in this journal of my route to conquest.


2. This past Saturday was our sixth anniversary.

On March 28th, six years ago, Sigyn and I were married (possibly) in what must have be one of the strangest ceremonies ever performed.  (If you would like to meander down memory lane, the wedding is here, while the story of our romance begins a little further back on about the 12th of February, 2014.

Although I could certainly have magicked my beloved and myself to some exotic and romantic location, I am married to someone who is very much a rule follower, and Sigyn was adamant we follow the shelter-in-place rules currently afflicting   this portion of Midgard.  It took us a couple of days to decide what we want to do, but eventually we settled upon preparing and enjoying a delicious meal at home.

We begin by caramelizing some onions.


Is there anything that smells better?  I think not!  Sigyn would like to stir, but I am doing it from a distance, safely and with magic.

I am all for jumping straight to the protein, but I know my sweetie is big on vegetables, so we are going to steam some potatoes and carrots.


I have always thought that those expandable steamer baskets are one of the cleverest Midgardian inventions. Very cunning.  Sigyn isn’t as enamored of the articulation as I am —I think its principles could very well be adapted for armor— but she does like to make it fold an unfold “like a flower.”  Over and over.  And over.  It was all I could do to convince her to let it serve its purpose and to carry on with our preparations.

Next, we want to add some cauliflower.

Ah, yes.  That most august brassicaceous capitulum.


Odd to think, is it not, that it belongs not only to the same genus, but to the same species as broccoli, cabbage, kale, and kohlrabi?  My idiot “brother” Thor used to tell everyone that it was also the source of the notion of a Vegetable Lamb but, as we all know, the herbaceous ovid is more likely a mistaken interpretation either of cotton or a very strange fern. 

With the cauliflower broken up and steaming away, it is time to examine the defining ingredient of this dish:


The human female bought this, on the strength of a taste she took of a dish that was being sampled out at the local market (back when such tastings occurred.)  I am sure she was saving it for a dinner for herself and the human male, but cum dormieris occasio deesset, as they say.

I will also make sure that the company that makes this sauce stops making it or goes out of business, because depriving the humans of something they’ve come to like is one of my chiefest pleasures.

The best part about being a mighty sorcerer is not having to to touch raw fowl.  I have magicked the chicken thighs into bite-size chunks, which are now making the acquaintance of the nicely-browned onions.


How are the vegetables doing, Sigyn?


As you can see, I have poked a carrot, and that tells me they are done.

Simmering all the ingredients together in the sauce has yielded up a lovely Indian dish.


Mmm.  Just the right amount of oregano.  (That is, none.)

Let us enjoy this feast, my darling.  Here’s to us and many more years of happiness!

Oops. We Both Goofed, Part I: Making Up for It

Sigyn and I were so busy traipsing about after the humans in the Big City to the South, hauling things in and out of bookstores, playing hide-and-seek in pen emporia, slurping noodles, and frolicking among the produce that we BOTH forgot that the 28th was our Anniversary!

We are making up for that now by having a lovely dinner at the local Lebanese restaurant.  It’s not much for atmosphere, being a small family-run place, but the food is usually first-rate.

We’re starting with what must be one of the most unlikely dishes in this realm.  Take a large, blackish-purple vegetable with no taste of its own, roast it until it turns completely black and smells like burning luggage, then smash it up and add unconscionable quantities of oil, sesame paste, and Frigga knows what-all.

And it turns into this.  Babaga-something-or-other.


Just because I can’t remember how to SPELL it doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate its smoky, smashy goodness.

Time for the main course!   Grilled chicken and veggies on skewers (pointy things–I approve!),  yummy flat bread, and fluffy rice with saffron and…  and…

What are those red things, Sigyn?


Ah. Right.  Barberries.  Fluffy rice with saffron and barberries.  Perfect.

I don’t know about this green stuff, though.  Green is great, yes, but what is this for?  How am I supposed to eat it?  No one has ever been able to tell me.


Sigyn says that chewing on the parsley after eating the meal will make your breath sweet, that chlorophyll is a natural breath-freshener.  I wouldn’t know — I’ve never kissed a cow.

I’ve decided that this dinner will be the mortals’ present to us.


That means this is theirs.

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