So long as we’re being honest here.
(And really, you’ve seen the things that I write. I am thoroughly incapable of keeping any secrets from you. Or I have no shame. Or both. Hmm.)
I have two things I need to tell you.
The first is kind of related to this week’s Eat.Live.Be. theme, which is portion size. And how to control it.
I occasionally yell at the television at the gym.
It’s the only opportunity I have to watch television, seeing as how I don’t own one. And so I like to abuse it to maximal proportions.
Sometimes this means telling Paula to get her cholesterol checked.
Or yelling at Giada to eat a cannoli, for god’s sake, and get herself some child-bearing hips.
Mostly it’s saying, “Oh no she didn’t!” to my favorite real housewives of “insert random city here”. (I am an equal opportunist, except when it comes to Atlanta, in which case I can’t stand the show.)
The people are going to be up in arms after they see this.
I might have to hide from every born and bred southerner that I know.
In fact, I wouldn’t even be surprised if Emeril and Paula Deen come a-knocking. And demand to know what’s what.
I won’t have any idea what to say.
I’ll probably have to offer them some tea mixed with Ambien. It will be my only recourse.
I have a roommate who is nocturnal.
We’ve sent her DNA for testing to try to figure out what exactly is going on in those Circadian rhythms of hers. To no avail.
Completely normal.
We were shocked. On many levels.
Eating a black and white cookie is a science. Or an art. Or one of those things that requires technique and skill and maybe even a bachelor’s degree in cookie eating.
Man, I wish I had one of those.
The perfect Sunday supper, this roasted chicken with salsa verde is unbelievably juicy and tender, and is paired perfectly with whipped cauliflower with parsnips and goat cheese.
If you happened to be in the Trader Joe’s on 21st street and 6th Ave last Friday. And noticed a girl whipping around the store as if she totally absolutely knew what she was doing. The one who bee-lined for the whole roasted chickens. Picked up every free-range organic bird she could find. Shook, smelled and pinched each and every one. For good measure. Until ultimately choosing one for no apparent reason other than that it just felt right in her hands.
And then proceeded to name it and talk to it in the obscenely long lines that had developed while she was pinching and shaking and ruminating.
Well. That was me.
I’d never cooked a whole roasted chicken before.
You probably saw right through me.
Welcome to Eats Well With Others, where we take a vegetable-and-cupcake laden approach to life (always with a bit of laughter on the side)!
