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Before you dive into this post, please vote for my salt photos and pumpkin pancakes with a maple cinnamon greek yogurt topping over at MarxFoods, I would really appreciate it! ALSO, remember to send me your entries for Regional Recipes: Brazil by the end of this month!  The winner of the Tate’s Bake Shop Giveaway is KIM of MO’ BETTA!  Kim, please contact me with your mailing address!

Sometimes medical school gets in the way of my real life.

It imposes itself in all sorts of obtrusive, inconvenient ways.  It’s clingy.  Like a bad boyfriend.

Without even offering up any of the perks of having a bad boyfriend.  Like having someone to sleep next to at night.  I guess I could curl up next to my anatomy textbook.  But I’ve been using it as a platform on which to roll out my calves every night.  (And truly, that’s the most useful it’s been since I’ve obtained it.  Money well spent, I suppose?)  And as such, it causes me so much pain that I don’t really think it’s “imaginary boyfriend material”.  You know?

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Before you dive into this post, feel free to check out my Tate’s Bake Shop cookies and a cookbook giveaway!  ALSO if you could please vote for my salt photos and pumpkin pancakes with a maple cinnamon greek yogurt topping over at MarxFoods, I would really appreciate it!

I have needs.

Sometimes, those needs involve dancing around my room to Lady Gaga.  Possibly in my underwear.  Possibly not.  And no, I am not going to clarify exactly what I mean by “not”.  And yes, mom.  I know that you are not going to like that I wrote that.  But sometimes, the truth is embarrassing.  There’s just no way around it.

Sometimes, those needs involve eating peppermint swirl Hershey’s kisses like they’re going out of style.  Especially because come January 1st, they most certainly will be going out of style and so you’ll have to special order them from some retailer on Amazon who has potentially laced them with LSD.  You can just never tell about these people who hoard candy for the sole purpose of selling it on Amazon.  I mean, really, what kind of person has the self control to let mounds of these sit in their house without eating them.  A psychopathic killer.  That’s who.

(What I’m trying to say is.  Please.  Go to Target.  Stock up.  Your life depends on it.)

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Before you dive into this post, feel free to check out my Tate’s Bake Shop cookies and a cookbook giveaway!ALSO if you could please vote for my salt photos and pumpkin pancakes with a maple cinnamon greek yogurt topping over at MarxFoods, I would really appreciate it!

School field trips used to have allure.


You would file onto a yellow school bus.  One by one.


You would fight over who gets to sit in the back with all of the cool kids.  You would secretly hope that the guy you’ve had a crush on for the past decade or so would ask you to sit next to him.  You would stare down the girl who he eventually did end up sitting next to.  If only looks could kill.  If. Only.


You would eat your lunch out of a brown paper bag (and didn’t that somehow make it taste so much better than when it came out of your hard plastic Barbie lunchbox?  Why did mom spend money on that hard plastic Barbie lunchbox anyway, when a paper bag truly would have sufficed?  Well, that ends that.  My future children are not getting hard plastic lunchboxes.  Even if they have Barbie on them.  ESPECIALLY if they have Barbie on them!)

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Before you dive into this post, please go over and vote for my Grasshopper/Creme de Menthe Bars over at My Baking Addiction/Good Life Eats! I would really appreciate it!

Giveaway details at the bottom of the page! 

I am feeling a little bit like a wholsesale retailer today.

Providing you with things you never even knew you wanted.  In bulk.  A five pound jar of mayonnaise.  Or a 62-pack of juice boxes.

Or two cookie recipes and a giveaway.  Get em while they’re still hot.

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Before you dive into this post, please go over and vote for my Grasshopper/Creme de Menthe Bars over at My Baking Addiction/Good Life Eats! I would really appreciate it!

It was every man, woman, and Santa for himself yesterday morning as I weaved my way through the depths of Chinatown, trying desperately to get over to the FDR Drive so that I could finish out my 11 mile long run/walk/run-walk in some semblance of a rational amount of time.

My run-walking buddies and I had already been through many an ordeal at this point.  We had throttled tourists on the Brooklyn Bridge.  Pointed a few choice fingers at a number of bikers who, in true biker fashion, attempted to run us off the road in an ugly manifestation of what can only be described as compensation for the fact that they aren’t/haven’t been/will not get any for an indeterminate and excruciatingly long amount of time.  (Bikers.  I’m sorry.  I don’t make the rules, I just live by them.  Don’t hate the player, hate the game.)  Informed our bladders that we were deeply sorry.  They were just going to have to wait until we got back to the starting point.  (Okay, maybe I was the only one talking to my bladder.  Carol had the common sense to eat some salt before we left.  So she was retaining water in a truly efficient manner.)

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I can tell you right now that the Christmas season is upon us.

How do I know, you query.

The air is bristling with it.  Yes.  Bristling.  It is sharp and pointy and cuts like a knife, my face feeling as if it is being jabbed from every which way as soon as I step out into the cold.

My brother keeps calling me to see what we should get our sister for Christmas. I keep not picking up.  I don’t have time or money for such things.

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