It's 9:00 at night. Why wouldn't there be loud noises and strange men in the basement?

Yes, the plumbers or gas-pipe installers or guys with a drill — who arrive in an always-inconviently-parked-unmarked-white truck — are back.  In the basement. Drilling. Loudly.

So instead of watching Waiting for Guffman (“I’ll take an ingenue and a diet Coke to go”), we are sitting in the bedroom, hoping the air-conditioner will drown out the noise. It doesn’t.

Anyway, before the unmarked van showed up, my husband, Mr. O the Anglophile, made this:

Shepherd's Pie!

It is made with lamb, carrots, peas, potatoes, onion, and British Shepherds Pie Mix that comes in a packet (like taco seasoning, which of course I’ve never used. Ahem.). Mr. O wants you to know that this packet, because it is British, is called a sachet.  We got the Shepherd’s Pie mix at the same British store that sold us our lovely teapot and the tea that we are currently drinking.

I suspect that Shepherd’s Pie is meant for strapping shepherds, who come home hungry after long days eating only bread and cheese for lunch while sitting under the shade of a tall tree followed by menacing sheep with odd-looking hooks in downy meadows and then training dogs to kill their cousins (wolves) and protect the sheep (which the shepherds will later feed to the dogs in the form of kibbles, while the shepherds’ wives make the sheep wool into horrid little dog sweaters, which will only further irritate the dogs and turn them against the sheep. Most unnatural. This is a little story, so forgive the normative gender binary, please.).

In any event, I personally spent a long day sitting in front of a computer writing a syllabus that looks more like a contract than a syllabus (“please refer to § 3b, par. 2, above”), so naturally, I wolfed the shepherd’s pie right down. Ha.

In addition to working a full day, cooking me dinner, and finishing Dracula, Mr. O also found a delightful little Armenian market down the street, where he bought this:

Curry powder for $1.86

And this is no trifle of a curry powder sachet, mind you. It is this big:

That's my (ok, sort of teeny) hand, but still.

Isn’t Mr. O amazing?  Now, the question is, what shall we do with this embarrassment of curry powder riches?  If you’d like to weigh in, leave us a comment below.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some more jarring sounds to listen to.  Cheerio.

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