I've mentioned that I feel like I am my own housewife. In a way, I am loving it. In another way (the way where I spend hours looking at expensive crockery instead of writing my dissertation) I am scared of myself.
But it's true. I saw this amazing turquoise Staub cookware at (duh) Anthropologie and was lusting after it. How did no one tell me about Staub before? Am I the only one who didn't know about this stuff? I was imagining all the baked eggs and other fun Frenchy things I'd make in the various sized pots when I picked up the smallest and cutest one and nearly choked to death. NINETY POUNDS!?!
I'm sure it's worth every penny, but for the time being, it has shattered my Stepford wife daydreams. Which is probably for the best, right? I don't think writers are supposed to know how to cook.
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