Saturday morning, very early. Trouble is afoot; trees are down everywhere we look, there is no power, water quality is suspect, and Mark can't get his trusty camping stove to work. The prospect of not having hot coffee is worrisome, not to mention all my romantic plans to use the camping stove to make hot food the rest of the weekend.
Of course, Mark comes through --I didn't doubt him for a second, except for the 10 minute period when the stove is sputtering and our apartment begins to smell strongly of gas. Thanks to my Eagle Scout husband, we have hot coffee and reheated waffles (made and frozen last weekend) for breakfast. We boil water on the stove and use a Vietnamese coffee filter to make very good, very strong coffee. After breakfast, we transfer all the perishable food and lots of ice blocks to a cooler.
Saturday, early afternoon. Morale is high, despite all the destruction outside. We slice into the bread Mark had baked on Thursday in especial preparation for hurricane sandwiches.
A stash of bacon, sprouts, and a tomato means we can make BLT's, mine smeared with harissa. Good with cold bottles of Czechvar beer.
Saturday, late afternoon. We move errant tree branches out of the street, sweep the common area free of debris and leaves, play cards, drink more beer, and spy on our neighbors to pass the time. Three mid-20s dudes stroll to the pool and blast their unfortunate taste in music (Nickleback, help). Like we aren't traumatized enough?
Saturday evening. Morale is low. Hot. Muggy. We turn our energy to making dinner and happily realize our pantry allows us to make pasta puttanesca. We saute garlic and chile flakes in olive oil before adding canned tomatoes, anchovy paste, chopped olives, and capers. After the sauce has cooked down, it smells amazing and looks like this:
We toss the sauce with penne and drink a bottle of merlot. We watch the sun set. Afterwards, we eat blueberry frozen yogurt and play Scrabble by candelight. Houston has never been so dark, or so quiet.