After such a decadent pie I’ve decided to self inflict an extreme detox — a word I refused to let into my vocabulary, every-day thinking, and entire life. Detoxes are for those who eat in excess, who are health nuts, for people who feel bad about the tiniest pin point of margarine (eww, yuck!) on their 52 multi-grain, vitamin packed, more nutritious than a raw kale, beets and spinach combination, inch of cardboard toast each morning. I’m just not one of those. I’ve been known to eat an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s for dinner and then go for dessert (ahem, churro chex mix, how could I not?).

I’m one who violently opposes running, who flees from the slightest hint of a juice cleanse, and shuns (by ripping into a thousand shreds) the $5 gym membership flyers that daily plague my mailbox. I refuse to be guilted into any kind of regimen (ice cream of course, the obvious exception). But pie and ice cream and churros have begun their eternal devastation to this body, and right before bathing suit season too. How rude. (If you are the super breed kind of woman who was born a permanent size 2 for your entire life no matter what you intake, I loathe you. Also, if there is such a thing as a metabolism transplant please sign up. Gaining weight is awesome! hehe)

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I’m sitting here watching football wondering why I’m not doing something more, well, interesting. So here I am telling you about lunch because seriously, it is way more riveting than RG3 and the usual spandex clad man smash fest plastered across the television on Sunday afternoons. As I have made it pretty obvious with brown butter, mushrooms and chocolate goods out numbering any green things on this site I thought it time, seeing as you are probably trying to down your daily intake of calorie free lettuce bowls, to give you something to look forward to.

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It amazes me how spring flies by and summer begins to knock on the door when, alas, I realize I’ve made nothing spring-y. I complain for three, four long wintery cold months about being tired of squash and kale and cauliflower (not that I eat these things, mind you). Nevertheless it doesn’t keep me from whining about my want for peas and rhubarb and spring shoots and new and fresh and better. Last year I let it slip between my fingers because the entire month of May I was dealing with a lack-lucker first trimester appetite combined with everysmellinmynoseishorrendousevenmybelovedicecream. This year, May felt like the month of failures. Next year, I hope to nip these problems in the bud. Let’s look back next year and judge me on my intentions, okay?

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Last Tuesday was our four year anniversary. I know. I’m twenty-three with four years of marriage under my belt and a still alive, somewhat small-ish two month old. We celebrated (the anniversary, not the still alive baby, though both deserve a party) by going on our second date after the whole baby thing happened. Thankfully your prayers worked. We did not once discuss our little valentine (unless you count the time when I realized there was dried spit up on my shirt, sigh). Our prix-fixe menu was superb with lobster risotto, tender short ribs (apparently I am a sucker for a good short rib since I’ve ordered it the last four times we’ve gone out) and a champagne caramelized mango tatin, if you’re me, or a hazelnut chocolate bread pudding and caramelized banana parfait if you’re him. Yes, our anniversary date was a success and the deep red roses are still perfuming the house (even though the florist was a day late, “too many orders”. Excuse my eye roll).

But before he knew the florist would fail him, my husband thought he would “have some fun”. After far too many hints (in  my opinion) and a desperate plea to go to the store for a “few items” (read: at least bring home a picked over bouquet of daisies) he came home with the ugliest, half dead, burnt orange and brown Idontknowhwhaththeheckyouaresupposetobe flowers and a package of baby’s breath (which in four years of marriage he has made one thing clear: his hatred for the tiny white buds) and a card (sorry, honey. I thought you were actually serious about this…) making me think he tried his hardest to find the most decent, award winning flowers and a funny/cute card (copy this card I got him 2 years ago) to make me laugh. I will not lie. I was extremely disappointed*. I wanted to shove the flowers in the trash can behind him, but refrained and left them on the table to finish their long, slow, miserable wilting death. I channeled my anger into reading my CI magazine that appeared last week instead.

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I’ve been hit hard with the autumn bug this week. It’s barely September and I’m already trying to sneak in stewy soups and hearty braises into the time frame known as dinner — which is never a constant thing (you’re welcome to think our lack of routine is due to operation parenthood training rather than the lazy excuse I won’t even bring up.) Lately I’ve become obsessed with tart granny smith wedges dipped in warmed gooey caramel, and have snuggled myself into oversized sweaters with hot cups of tea on more than ten separate occasions in the last 42-hours.

There was even a carrot and apple slaw I failed to mention because, well, we were obsessed with the pretty fall colors and the new flavors of autumn and it was gone before I could even say yum. And, of course, the autumn dive has not had a single rescue attempt when we have been trying to stay dry for the past week with the 20-degree dip in temperature and the longing to have little fingers to hold rather than feeling them stroke my liver. Really, it is quite welcome.

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