Busted and Untitled

I received an email this weekend informing me that I stole someone's beloved trademarked words - Kitchen on Fire - and to immediately release my hold on it or I would be thrown in the slammer. Maybe not the slammer, but I assure you it was very serious. And illegal. And very edgy.

So, I arrive at the start of the week untitled. It's a void I need to fill soon, but I thought I'd ask for ideas from you first. Please help title me.

Or just send bail.

Blood, Sweat and Wine

Phone conversation between husband and I at 6 p.m. Tuesday.

Me (in my most urgent voice): Can you stop on your way home and get me some Band-Aids?

Husband (not very urgent response): I guess. Why?

Me: I made dinner.

Husband: I'll get a variety pack. We should really be prepared for this, knowing what we do.

Me: Thanks?

Stuffed peppers. I dripped a little into his pepper for good luck. The husband and I are now connected through blood. Like the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.

In true dramatic form, I chose the largest bandage from my apparently much-neeeded variety pack, which I'm assuming grants me a hall pass from cooking dinner the rest of the week.



As you can imagine, it was very traumatic. Wine helped.

It's 52 Inches

The TELEVISION. Honestly, people.

Remember the couch? I know, it's yesterday's news and I continue to mention it at every available opportunity. Today, I promise to retire the Alice in Wonderland couch references. Well, the husband bought a television. To match.

He argued that he could not see the football flying through the air on our former television and this season, he deserves to. I argued that as long as the fans of the team he supports appear to be pleased when the play ends, he'll know something good happened. I lost.

The bad news: The room that holds these 'roided-out possessions has remained the same size.

The good news: When the Real Housewives of Atlanta scream reputation-ending things and pull each other's hair, it's now even better.

Verbal Leakage

It's been quite a summer. We leave it a stronger couple, but not without learning a few hard lessons. The following scenarios detail two ways to handle the inevitable residue from a tough situation. Wrongly and even more wrongly.

Way to handle it #1: During an awkward elevator silence with a very sweet man who works in my office building, I once blurted out our pregnancy news ridiculously prematurely. Cut to this week.

Sweet man from my office building: Looks like you're coming along nicely there! You have that glow to go along with it!
Me: (a little stunned): Thanks! Yep, feelin' great...and..."glowy!" (And suddenly very fat)

Way to handle it #2: Over dinner at our favorite pub near our apartment, which is also the site of our first date, I once blurted the news to our waitress ridiculously prematurely. Cut to yesterday.

Waitress: What can I get you? (Memory is triggered and then glances at my mid-section)
Me: Pinot Grigio please.
Waitress: (Mix of disgust, confusion and the beginning signs of sympathy) Right. Pinot Grigio.

Since I'm a woman who learns from her mistakes, I did my best to nip this one in the bud. Upon her return with my Pinot Grigio, I said the following:

Me: Thanks, I'll have the Southwestern Salad. I'm not pregnant anymore.

Husband becomes fascinated with his menu.

Waitress (all bodily blood rushes to her face): OH! OH THAT'S OK. NO, THAT'S FINE. OK. GREAT. KNOW WHAT? I'M GOING TO BRING YOU SOME SHOTS!

Shots? Seems strangely....celebratory....but alrighty.

In the end, the husband downed the shot because we all know how kind he is to waitstaff and promptly left her a 50% tip. He then made it clear that should we ever be blessed again, I will keep it close to the vest until the child turns 3. I agreed.

Fake it to make it

I made it was just a side dish an entire meal myself this week. I stole the recipe from the Whole Foods deli. I created it solely from seasonal inspiration, my competent sense of flavor balance and just an inherent cook's intuition.

It was a weeknight. I had no previous plan in mind for dinner. I just pulled it out of a hat, as any great magician would. And, I assure you, it was magical.

Should you be so amateur as to have to use other people's invented recipes, I'll provide it here:

Summer Corn Salad
2 cans 6 REAL cobs of corn, boiled and de-cobbed (I have no idea what that action is called)
1 small red onion, diced
About 6 scallions (white, green, the whole sucker), sliced
Handful of grape tomatoes, sliced
2 tbsp olive oil
2 tbsp apple cider vinegar
Salt and pepper to taste

Mix it all together and serve. Cold. I know. Complicated. Not everyone is the domestic artist I've become. Don't be discouraged, you'll get there. The lady at the Whole Foods deli might help, too.

*UPDATED* Add little ribbons of fresh basil at the end. I just checked the piece of paper the lady at Whole Foods gave me thought of that.

Dance like (and pray that) no one is watching

Every year, at least once, I spend the weekend with my childhood girlfriends. Though we've all married and moved to various places, we remain committed to at least one night a year of destroying our bodies and minds with wine, chocolate and small-minded, catty gossip. This year, a few couldn't make it due to some sort of adult responsibility, so the remaining 3 of us rallied. Typically, we do nothing. That's the goal.

This year, a bit of a shift. Here's how it went down:

Me: So did you hear about Sally Smith's divorce? Man, I saw that one comin'. Can you pass the bucket of chocolate?

Friends (both mothers): Let's cancel our dinner reservations, eat the rest of your husband's deep dish pizza that he was looking forward to all month...and GO DANCING."

Dancing? I mean, sometimes I dance with the husband in the kitchen. Or when I have a full bladder in line at the grocery store. In the company of a DJ named "JeZus," it's been a while. But, I considered that their mornings and nights consist of poop, Cheerios and T-ball and found the courage.

We arrived about 4 hours early to the closest late-night dancing establishment. After we paid our "cover," we were greeted by two very impressive breasts and their owner, who said, "Beers or shots?" We headed downstairs for the 80's music. Seemed the safer and more familiar option. With no choice but to dive right in, we all attempted to rediscover our smoothest moves. First the "hold the beer in the air" dance, then the "just the shoulders" move, and so on. It was a slow start but before we knew it we were 15 again, jumping and screaming to "Get out of my dreams and into my car."

It was an unusual, much more physically active girl's weekend - one that I believe we all needed. Sweaty 20-somethings with trucker hats, tube tops, platform shoes and bad decision-making skills surrounded us, shining a revealing light on our age. But we didn't care. We knew all the words and they didn't.

The Bright Side

The kitchen. When we move, I won't miss it. I might even accidentally light a match in it and run out after the movers. Except I wouldn't want all of the other people in our building who loathe their kitchens to be harmed.

It's really a great apartment. It boasts an entire wall of floor to ceiling windows that overlooks Lake Michigan, a reasonable amount of space for people who didn't accidentally buy Shaq's couch, and a pool. The kitchen is the blemish. The hairy mole. It's not just small. It's narrow. Its suffocating. No matter how much you clean it, it's still dirty. It's stained with remains of inhabitants before us. Not bodily remains. But, you probably knew that.

I've arranged, re-arranged, arranged it back. I've moved the toaster next to the knives and then over near the cookbooks. I've beaten the toaster with a spatula as punishment for its cumbersome design. I've screamed, I've cried, I've laughed that laugh that only insane people laugh.

The husband thinks it's a fine kitchen - one we should be grateful for. Sometimes he projects that kind of contagious positivity that makes me embarrassingly aware of my monster-like ridiculousness. And ridiculous it is. Because this is our view.

For you, husband, are always my brightest side.

The Simple Life

When the husband and I were in London, we had dinner with an Italian colleague of mine, Cristina. She's really Italian, not Olive Garden Italian. Although, if she had one look at that endless basket of breadsticks, I think she might come to the other side.

After pluralizing happy "hour," we searched for somewhere to fill our bellies swishing with beer and stumbled upon an "Italian" restaurant. I can compare it to the Greek restaurants in Indiana where you can get anything from a full Thanksgiving feast to a chicken quesadilla. At that point in the evening, I didn't care. I could have eaten the sleeves off the husband's shirt. Cristina, on the other hand, would have rather starved to death than partake in such a disgraceful meal. We started talking about the difference between food made in Italy and Italian food.

Turns out, she doesn't unload a giant dump truck of useless ingredients into her sauce. She uses 2 ingredients - tomatoes and basil. Apparently, I didn't need to spend hours chopping and nearly burn down our apartment, like when this happened.

I made it this weekend and we already gobbled up half of it. It's actually delicious. I even put it in a jar - it just looks more homemade that way.

Thanks Cristina. For helping me on my way to becoming the real deal.

Sauce:

Heat a few tablespoons of good olive oil over low heat. Add garlic if you like, but you don't need it. Add a can of good quality, peeled whole tomatoes and about 8 leaves of fresh basil. Bring to a boil, then bring down to a low heat, add salt and pepper and let it boil for a few hours. I pureed it at the end in the food processor, but if you like it chunky, go for it.

Key Learnings: The Diet

I've been on the diet for a week. Sort of.
Here's what I've learned. Some of it is true and some I would like to be true:

5) The husband can "experiment" with it for a couple of days and still lose 5 lbs. While I lose none.

4) Vodka has carbs. But if you drink it with Crystal Light, the fake sugar fights them off. It's like an immune system in your glass. Add ice.

3) The deprivation causes you to eat peanut butter at your desk at work. With a butter knife. If you think people are looking at you, they are. A sadder skinnier you.

2) Cheese is your only option. Ever. As a result, regularity is not.

1) I had a chicken potpie for lunch. Don't do that.

The Die-et

I'm on a diet. Some "South Beach" nonsense - the one that strips you of all that is pleasing, satisfying and fulfilling in life. This isn't South Beach. I walk to work in a ski mask 8 months out of the year. Carbs keep me warm.

I had that moment this weekend. The one where you look at yourself and say, today is the day. Today, I begin work toward complete hotness -the kind of hotness only carblessness can provide. Today, I book my flight...to the South Beach. I tried to convince the husband to come along on my journey to bikinis and high heels (they always wear high heels with their bikinis in "the South Beach"), but he said we'd talk about it after the Cubs game.

I spent all evening yesterday preparing breakfast, lunch and dinner for the days ahead. Lean meat, lowfat cheese, skim milk, nuts o' moderation, sugar free puddings for someone please kill me an extra special tasty dessert. Vegetable salad, taco salad, my soul has been ripped out salmon salad, celery and hummus, celery with peanut butter, I'd rather stab myself celery with cottage cheese. It's actually quite lovely. I really recommend it.

Today at Whole Foods, when I was picking up a few extra "goodies," like edamame, this very kind, clearly carb-consuming woman offered me a free sample of her oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. I politely said, "No, thank you. I'm on a very special diet. It's the South Beach. You know, like the skinnies in high heels and bikinis. Not like the Golden Girls. That's Miami. I can see how that might be confusing."

Then I grabbed one, as well as the one the guy behind me was hoping for. But he wasn't fast enough, was he? No, he wasn't.

Diet starts first thing tomorrow.