When you are a kid, there’s pretty much no vehicle more awesome than an ice cream truck. It’s sugar on wheels. I remember the ice cream truck targeting our neighborhood since it was filled with kids. My brother and I would perk up, then in a joint effort run to our parents. “Can we PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE get some ice cream?!” It was as if nothing else mattered and maybe we could possibly die if ice-creamy goodness did not hit our lips in the next two minutes. Sometimes the ice cream truck would travel to our house close to dinner time, and the answer would be no. In these cases I remember the world ending a little bit. There was some light pouting, maybe some foot stomping. My brother, who is six years younger than myself, would either follow my pout-y lead, or in a true act of excellence THROW himself on the floor. We were dramatic. Mom ignored it. Good move, mom. Imagine what we could do if we had an audience! […]
I am back. I can breathe out of my nose. It basically feels like the first day of spring. I want to click my heels and dance with my hands waving in the air. I want to do jumping jacks. I want to bake cookies. I want to do anything that is not struggling to breathe while lying on a couch and watching terrible daytime programming. I want to eat anything but chicken soup. If I eat anymore chicken soup, I fear I will actually transform into a chicken. This would make my cooking/blogging life difficult. Wings don’t have thumbs, making it very hard to type and even harder to lift things like pots or baking sheets.
Enough of that. I haven’t left the house for more than ten minutes at a time in the last six days. Forgive all preposterous declarations of what life would be like if I was indeed a blogging chicken. It would be hard, that’s all I am sayin’. Also, I would probably not make you things like quiche. Chickens don’t eat quiche. Aren’t you happy I am not a chicken? […]
You know that moment when you open your eyes and you can feel that your face is puffy? You reach over to your nightstand in hopes that your fingers will meet a glass of water, but instead you just end up unplugging a lamp, knocking off an alarm clock and dropping your cell phone. The headache sets in. A headache that can only be described as “this is what happens when you mix champagne with gin.” Or, “this is what happens when you mix half a bottle of champagne with gin.” OR, “this is what happens when you mix half a bottle of champagne with gin, eat animals from both land and sea, have butter as a legitimate side dish, swear you are not going to have dessert and then eat half of a chocolate bar, pass out on the couch in a sloppy champagne fueled coma” situation.
Sounds like another successful Steak and Lobster Day (or shall I say “Valentines Day” for all you non Steak and Lobster-ers). The husband got home a little bit early. We cooked together. I spiced up the steaks and got to work on our side dishes. I whipped up a mashed cauliflower with garlic and wilted chard situation as well as a Greek salad. Peter cooked our meat to perfection, melted some butter and mixed us some cocktails. I had planned to get a bottle of wine at the grocery store, but in my intense steak and lobster excitement I managed to forget. Instead, we went rooting through our cabinets and found a a bottle of champagne. We then proceeded to make ourselves French 75’s. This is a cocktail that combines gin with champagne (yes, this might be a red flag). Of course once we opened the bottle of champagne we decided that we could not let it go to waste (Perhaps we are the red flags?). […]
I have some confessions for you…
I know pretty much nothing about football, unless you count watching every season of Friday Night Lights (Clear eyes, Full Hears, Can’t Lose). I know there are touchdowns and fumbles and first downs but I cannot tell you which is which. I grew up in a football household. My parents would wear jerseys and make large volumes of guacamole for Super Bowl Sunday. I would play with my Barbie Dream House, make things with glitter, and occasionally comment on how tight all the football players wore their pants. I somehow managed to miss learning all the rules. When my father asked me if I would be watching the Super Bowl this year, I responded honestly and told him probably not. He was disgusted. How could he have gone so wrong? The 49ers were playing and I wasn’t even going to turn on the TV? Awful. So, on game day I decided to get into the spirit of things in order to not be a total disappointment to the man who raised me. I bought a lot of spinach dip and a bag of crinkle cut potato chips and ate my weight in both. Apparently getting into the spirit means me eating myself into a dip coma. […]