I got to sleep in this morning. I look forward to the end of the week because Friday is the special, special day of sleeping in, moseying to work, and teaching a class that starts at 12:30.
The only time I’m not fond of Friday mornings is when I end Thursday night with an argument with the spouse. Which happened. We made up before we fell asleep, but I hate fighting, and I hate the unsettling feeling that comes after letting yourself lose your temper.
Sleeping in this morning did help. The husband got up at five and asked me at six if I was ready to get up. I said, “grrmmmggmghh.” He woke me up at six thirty and asked me if I was ready to get up. I ignored him.
At seven, he told me to get up.
I obliged. After I crawled out from underneath my comforter, he called from the kitchen:
“Hurry up! Breakfast is almost ready.”
The husband makes breakfast for us every other day, so this morning’s declaration wasn’t a surprise. Also, I really don’t like eating breakfast upon first waking up. I like to drink my coffee, take a shower, and then eat breakfast.
But I obliged.
He said: “Don’t go into the kitchen and look. I want it to be a surprise.”
Hmm, I thought. Oatmeal and fried eggs are the only two breakfast foods in his repertoire, so neither of those would have surprised me. He must be up to something.
Trying to push back my irritation of being made to eat breakfast so soon after waking, I waited for him to finish.
In a couple short minutes, he put two plates in front of us.
Two plates that looked like they held two piles of gravy. “What is this?”
“Biscuits and gravy!” he chirped.
His chirping was cute, and my irritation disappeared.
“Biscuits and gravy, huh? Where are the biscuits?”
“Underneath the gravy, silly.”
I looked underneath the gravy, saw something, and tasted it. Tasted like a biscuit.
Didn’t look like a biscuit.
He saw me examining the food, “Something went wrong with the recipe.”
“Hmm. You know there is Bisquick in the cupboard, don’t you?”
“Well, tell me about your recipe.”
“It turned out soupy,” he explained.
“Your biscuit dough was soupy? That’s not supposed to happen.”
My dear husband couldn’t, for the life of him, think of what had gone wrong. He said the recipe called for 1 1/3 cups of milk. That’s a lot!
Aha! He halved the entire recipe, but waking me up threw him off his game, and he added the full measure of milk.
Poor guy had to bake his biscuit “batter” in a sheet pan.
I love him.