I finally regained enough dexterity in my finger that Morgan decided that I was allowed to use a kitchen knife again, so I made dinner last night. It felt really nice: it turns out that I like having agency over my food. (If you had told me five years ago that there would come a time where I would miss not being able to cook for eight days, I would have thought you were nuts.)
I made a sort of ratatouille out of the eggplant, grape tomatoes, olive oil, garlic, and Sunny Paris seasoning (it seemed the most French, and therefore the most appropriate for ratatouille), served alongside our five remaining bratwurst, which I pan-fried with sliced onions.
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