Tofu (or Chicken) in Green Chile, Mint and Cilantro Sauce with Sweet Potatoes and Cauliflower

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A few weeks ago, my brother came over for dinner.

(Don’t you just love stories about my brother?  Today is his birthday.  And his graduation.  And he’s taking his third actuarial exam so that he can be let into the world to do things like run statistics for Deloitte and travel all over the globe while leaving his poor sister alone and lonely in New York.  And instead of holding his hand as he walks down the aisle, I’ll be in my apartment learning about the musculoskeletal system and convincing myself that I have every autoimmune disease under the sun.  I wish I could be there instead of here, diagnosing myself with lupus for the 62nd time this year.  Sigh.  Good luck Daniel!)

By which I mean, he bought food on the way over from a doctor’s appointment and ate it at my kitchen table.

My.Kitchen.Table. Which hasn’t seen any take-out other than sushi in the two years since I’ve lived here.

It almost buckled under the weight of his chicken parm sandwich from the sheer shock of it all.  So did I.

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Pasta with Cauliflower, Walnuts, and Feta…Eat.Live.Be!

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I’ve felt these past two weeks as if I were starting life over again.

One of my friends noticed the difference the other day when he saw me in our lobby.  “You look…happy?”, were his words.

I had no real answer other than that I happened to wake up on the right side of the bed that morning, but that really if he had seen me the day before I probably would have been a full force kind of disaster.  Category 5 hurricane-esque.  Good days, bad days.  We all have ’em.  So who knows.

But then I thought about it.  And you know?  I have been happier lately.  (Aside from Saturday, of course, when I saw the cutest little two year old at Starbucks and almost started to cry after my ovaries exploded in my peritoneal cavity.  That was fun.)

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Lemon Blueberry Cheesecake Bars

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Bad things are brewing in my kitchen.
I have three pounds of Callebaut chocolate sitting (hiding) in my purse.  Three trays of brownies to bake for two bake sales.  (Yes, my brownies are going to be at the National Food Bloggers Bake Sale NYC!  So what time will you be stopping by?)
My hair is in some kind of bun/ponytail that I apparently attempted to master whilst sleeping.  Mastery in REM is not  my forte.  For the record.  No, I’m probably not going to take it out before I leave my apartment.  It has a look to it.  Not the kind of look that will get me married or even a first date.  But a look nonetheless.

Coriander Tofu (or Chicken) Tostadas with Refried Beans and "Grilled" Fennel

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They say you learn something new every day.

Well.  That sounds promising for those of us who have to learn all of medicine in two weeks.

Unless.

Instead of learning the many and varied side effects of anti-epileptics ((k) all of the above).  (Yes, sometimes the answer choices go to “k”.)

Instead of figuring out which hole in your skull each and every cranial nerve comes out of (play odds – superior orbital fissure).

Instead of being a productive member of the medical profession in any way shape or form.

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Salmon Baked in a Foil Parcel with Green Beans and Pesto…Eat.Live.Be.!

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If I weren’t in medical school, I’d likely be living in a shoe.  Or, more poignantly, a shelter made of old Bon Appetit issues.  With some of my larger cookbooks being used as support beams.

(Writing that is strangely calming, actually.  At least now I know I have a plan.  And an excuse to keep all of those old issues that are skewed all over my bedroom floor and are likely in the midst of plotting some sort of mutiny.

Dear Bon Appetit mags.  You keep up this kind of volatile behavior and you are going to be the rain gutter in my makeshift hut on Madison Avenue.  Seriously.)

My point being that the cost of living in New York is high.  And, I think we can all agree, food blogging is not an inexpensive hobby.  And so if I did not have subsidized housing along with a nice little stipend from the NIH that they’ve so kindly agreed to give me in exchange for the next 7-8 years of my life and my sanity.  I’d be screwed (excuse my French).

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