On turning 33 and pub food night

I very recently turned 33 years old. Who cares? you ask. Well, I do. 33 was always a big number for me when I was little. I’m not sure where I got that number, but it seemed to me (from the vantage point of an 8-year-old) that when you were 33 you had your shit together. Like, that was fully grown up.

So it’s interesting to me to consider this from the vantage point of a 33 year old. And as it turns out, I might have been onto something as a little girl. More and more, over the past few months and years, I’ve been feeling more grown up, in a really good way. I used to be: well, I just turned such and such an age, but I still feel like a teenager. Now, I no longer feel like a teenager. I’m still the same person, but with lots more experience, and responsibility, and cares, and grey hairs, and wrinkles.

I thought it would bother me. We do live in a society that worships youth, in all its accidental beauty and occasional ignorance. And yet, it bothers me not at all. I feel more comfortable in my own (scarred and stretched out) skin then I ever have before. Here in Geneve everyone refers to me as Madame. I thought this would bother me too, like how you’re supposed to protest when someone calls you Ma’am instead of Miss, as if this is an insult. But here, it’s meant as a sign of respect, and I take it as one. I feel more substantial, more important than I did when I was a girl. Words I speak are listened to. I feel more free to walk down a street, without worrying that I will get catcalled or be harassed by some young man. It still happens sometimes, but I can shut it down with a look and I don’t feel guilty or like I should smile no matter how awkward I’m being made to feel.

It turns out that along with the grey hairs and wrinkles, I have a better sense of humour and a calmer way of dealing with things that used to send me over the edge. It might even be something like wisdom, although I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Life does balance things out, somehow.

Grown ass woman is a term that’s been kicking around in my head for awhile. I am a grown ass woman. I am 33 years old, a member of this society, traveler of the world and bearer of children. I have to tell you, 33 feels damn good.


On to more fun things, now. I recently made Z some very unhealthy food for Father’s Day. I found some favourite pub foods and tried to recreate them.

Fried pickles are one such favourite. I had never had them before, until at our wedding the restaurant we held our reception at offered them as appies. They are SOOO good. I miss dill pickles, which don’t exist here, but I’ve learned that if you fry them up in batter and dip them in French sauce, you’re not missing out all that much at all. Also, I added dill to the batter so that might have made a difference, but I stand by the fact that frying improves everything. I found the recipe for them at House of Yumm.


Now Buffalo Chicken Wings are a huge favourite of Z’s. Since his chances to go out to pubs and down beers and chicken wings are vastly limited over here, I think he was pretty happy I found this recipe. Not going to lie, they are awesome. These are baked, actually, not fried, but they are honestly just as good. Only, don’t get to thinking that they are healthier. There is so much butter on these puppies they might actually be worse. But they are easier, and not as messy, so that’s a total bonus. I got the recipe for these Baked Buffalo Wings on Six Sisters’ Stuff.


2 thoughts on “On turning 33 and pub food night

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