I'll ask my readers. Both of them.

As a follow-up to the terribly exciting chili recipe contest I held earlier this month for a Restaurant.com gift certificate reward, I'd like to announce the winner(s). There are two. Why, you ask?

Because two people responded.

They're both my friends. In real life. Outside the blogosphere. Basically, I paid them.

Congratulations Jen and Lexie! It's such a coincidence that I know both of you. And that you know each other. And that we all used to work together.

Looks like we're all going to dinner together at one of Chicagoland's fancy Restaurant.com establishments.

Yes, I'll pay.

I Love New Fork

Remember Jill and Mike? They moved to New York. Or, New Jersey. It's kind of like when I tell people I grew up in Chicago, when I really grew up in Gary, Indiana. Same thing. Sort of. We got the same news stations. Why don't you believe me?

I would tell you that we visited Jill and Mike this weekend to reminisce and sight-see but really, all we did was stuff ourselves like Thanksgiving turkeys. Upon our arrival on Friday afternoon, we stopped for a light lunch at The Iron Monkey, the hippest bar in Jersey City. The light lunch included an entire pizza for myself and 3 microbrewed beers with an alcohol content that could hospitalize most humans. Just a snack.

Next, we headed to the West Village for dinner. I like to call it "The Village." You can, too. Anyway, we ate at a restaurant called Good. Oh, and it was, folks. The baddest good.

The husband ordered the hamburger stuffed with pulled pork. It wasn't a pulled pork burger. It was a burger. Stuffed. With pulled pork. I was really happy to watch him enjoy such a satisfying meal. I was also happy that I was sharing the spare bedroom with one of the other wives instead of him that night.

The best part about New Yersey? That's where Jill and Mike live. Kind of like Brangelina.

No sales tax on clothing.

It's funny how the clothes I bought this weekend don't fit. I can't imagine why.

Yes, I'll have the Foot in Mouth soup

The husband, always full of surprises, sent me a last minute email yesterday inviting me to dinner at one of our favorite neighborhood restaurants. Happy not to think about making dinner, I accepted. That husband. Always thinking of me.

Our conversation upon arrival at the restaurant:

Me: This is so nice - you and me, a little "during the week" date.

Him: Yep. I just really needed a good meal.

Screeching sound. Like a needle on a record. Or the slamming brakes on a car. Or a marriage based on food satisfaction lies.

Me: Oh reallly?

Him: Well, not a good meal. Just a tasty meal. You know, a meal I can taste. Or, just, you know, a bigger meal. Heartier. So you didn't have to cook. Nevermind. S*#T.

The food arrives. I study the fried chicken sandwich he so desired. It was just as you'd expect it to be. Cheaply dressed in some chemical-based creamy substance, bright red tomato (lipstick). It's always the same story, ladies.

I told him I hoped he and his cheap fried chicken fantasy would be very happy together. I'm not going to feel like any less of a woman.

Even if I do start making fried chicken sandwiches twice once a week.

Why I love taco salad

There are men who cook. The husband is not one of them. Before we were married, he survived on a nutrient-packed meal plan that included cereal once, maybe twice a day and the standard Potbelly's sandwich for dinner. The kitchen in his former residence housed brand new, stainless steel appliances only found through many layers of dust. Meanwhile, I have to chop onions on the windowsill in our current apartment. But I digress.

After what seemed like a typical tough day lately, I dragged myself home. When I opened the door, there he stood. Lettuce neatly chopped and washed, fixings waiting in their tiny, colorful bowls, perfectly seasoned meat simmering on the stove. TV off. Music on. Candles lit.

The taco salad. That's right, ladies. You like tacos? You like salad? Look no more. You will never remember the taco without the salad, nor the salad. Without. The taco. It's a tough one, but with a little practice, you'll nail it.

It's commonly said that marriage can become boring. Every day a repeat of the one before. A typical, while comfortable, routine where two people settle in and stay the same based on the acceptance of each other. That each has their role. That there are no more surprises.

Whoever said that has a husband that never makes taco salad.

The Gravy Bath

We traveled to Toledo this weekend for a Pasz family reunion. When we visit, the activities may vary but one thing stays the same. The delicious, potato-based, cheese-topped, swimming-in-gravy meals that, after the meat sweats subside, leave this lady just a little bit happier.

When it's happening, it's so wrong it feels right. It's like I'm having a secret, same-sex affair with Paula Deen and the consequences just don't matter. I am risking it all. For the butter.

It doesn't stop with the entree. The dessert table redefines excess. From goopy lemon meringue to some sort of Ritz cracker glued to a piece of chocolate concoction (probably wasn't glued together, but I'd eat it even if it had glue in it), they spared no detail. Pumpkin pie? Two of them. Oh, you'd like Cool Whip? Whole tub of it just to your left.

The spread spoke to me seductively, whispering, "Come to our side. Cleanse your worries away. Take a gravy bath."

God bless you, the women of Pasz. Good Gravy, you can cook.

Embracing the New Normal

Everyone has a sad story. Growing up in my family, we all received adequate sympathy for our sad stories but not without a healthy dose of reality. If something happened to one of us and another chimed in with an additional unfortunate scenario, my aunt would say, "Oh..your DOG'S BIGGER, ISN'T it?"

I never really understood why a larger dog meant a sadder story, particularly because large dogs seem much more equipped to exist in the world. Those small, rat-like creatures seem doomed from the get-go. Especially in Chicago, where I have to literally WORK at not stepping on them. Sorry PETA. Those dogs have a more expensive wardrobe than I do. When I see them, I'm stepping on them. Accidentally. Probably.

Either way, what I think she meant was, "Save it. Everyone has a sad story."

The husband and I have certainly received our share of bad news this year. It wasn't easy. Like, German shepherd not easy. But we're getting on with it. Because compared to a lot of people, its not even a chihuahua.

Last night, we met after work for a real, old-fashioned, sturdy Chicago dinner. Italian restaurant with a piano, a little brown liquor even before a glance at the menu, the kind of conversation we had at the beginning. Before the large dogs.

If we're lucky, we have a long road ahead. I suspect it will be full of sad stories. And Italian restaurants. The plan? No plan. Embrace your normal. And stop putting clothing on your dog.

Seriously, stop it.