Superstitious Minds

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I’ve just finished binge watching the BBC miniseries, Rome.

I won’t spoil the ending for those who haven’t seen it and don’t know their history or their Shakespeare. All I’ll say is that I was pretty sad when Octavian’s forces defeated Mark Antony’s army prompting Antony to commit suicide.

As well an engaging story line filled with legions of attractive men in uniform, Rome offers glimpses into ancient Roman life. I particularly enjoyed scenes like the one where Vorenus damns his family to Hades. Vorenus immediately regrets this rash action. His brother in arms, Pullo offers reassurance. As long as an animal wasn’t killed on the curse, it can be reversed. (Duh–everybody knows a curse doesn’t “take” unless you make a sacrifice to it. Why was Vorenus so worried?)

I admit to feeling a bit smug watching too grown men worrying over the power of a curse. These are clearly characters living in an unenlightened age before scientific discovery and universal access to education. Of course they rely on superstition to explain the mysteries of their world.

Then my sailor and I went grocery shopping. Loading our stuff in the back of the truck, a box of tissues fell out of a bag.

I noticed the picture on the side of the box.

“Oh my Gosh! I have to exchange these tissues!”

“Why?”

“There’s birds on the box!”

My sailor looked at me with raised eyebrows.

“Duh–everybody knows images of birds are bad luck.”

He groaned. He may have even looked a little smug. “You’ll be in line for ages. It’s really busy.”

“Fine.” I climbed in the truck. “We’ll risk taking them home.”

It should be okay since we haven’t sacrificed an animal.

Belly on up to the Bar

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I’ve found another series to binge watch while I wait for season 4 of The Walking Dead to come out on DVD. It’s Rome and it’s fabulous! There are only two seasons, but they’re long. (Did I mention it’s fabulous?)

Unfortunately, devoting a couple of hours a day to Rome-ing means other things get neglected–namely baking.

It was time to make cookies so I devised a plan to streamline the process: bars! Think of the time saved if instead of individually forming three dozen little cookies I just squished all the dough into a pan, baked it and cut it into perfect, crumbly bars when cool.

It seemed like a good idea until I turned the cooled pan over the cutting board and smacked it to loosen the giant cookie rectangle. Part came out according to plan, but lots didn’t. Since it’s the cook’s prerogative to eat everything that’s not quite perfect, I scarfed down all the broken bits even though I wasn’t hungry.

Bloated and sluggish, I still had to clean up the kitchen which was covered in sticky crumbs from my wrestling match with the cookie mass.

The good news? After presenting the family with these unpleasant bars, no one will be asking me to bake anytime soon. Oh, and now I can get back to Vorenus and the gang!