I trust you all had wonderful, frisbee throwin’, back deck grillin’, smoked meat chompin’ fun packed yesterday as we celebrated our Independence. Please tell me you partied enough for the both of us, because this year we found our July 4th smack dab between a 64-hour power outage and vacation. To say we didn’t celebrate, would be accurate. Perhaps you heard, if you keep up with weathery news things, that a derecho flew right threw Washington D.C. Friday night at 10:30. PRIME baby-asleep-we-can-party-hardy-all-night-long-for-two-hours-before-hitting-the-sack time. It had us scrambling throughout our half disheveled house (construction finally underway for a pantry, and folks, I’ve been swooning at the single shelf that has been nailed in almost a month ago as things keep delaying further progress, but boy is it a perfect shelf) to find any spare half burnt (read: has the remotest chance of still catching on fire) candles strewn about the house.

It was one of the most random moments of my life. A slightly humid summer evening, with heat lightening in the distance. Muggy, with flicks of yellow amber glowing from lightning bug tushies and the rhythmic chirp from crickets. A slight rustle in the trees as an occasional sticky wind passed through their glossy leaves. No sooner did we schlep ourselves inside, put the baby to bed and sit down to determine how we would spend our last few precious Friday night hours than the storm came raging in full force. I’m pretty sure at one point I saw Toto fly by my bedroom window as I tried to predict which method — the rattling window and wall shaking wind, the lightning strikes eerily too close for comfort or the drenching monsoon tidal wave downpour that joined the assault — would destroy our little home. Then it stopped. Just as quickly as it started. And we were then left in a sans air conditioned, spoiling refrigerator, muggy, sweat house. Also, our house’s windows have no screens, and 92% can’t open either. Not that there was even a remote wind to carry us through the epic heat wave that landed on us exactly as the power grid was wiped blank. We were stuck. In humidness. With a baby. Who doesn’t understand what we mean when we say, “Sorry, honey. I know you’re hot, but we’ve got to keep at least the diaper on.” To boys, birthday suits are the bee’s knees.

Continued over here »

I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to take over Father’s Day with my new favorite thing on this green earth. It was supposed to be about celebrating the man, the dad, the father figure, the brave, strong, absurdly handsome male specie who knocked me up and has been there every step of the way supporting me through grueling 2 a.m. cough, McDonald’s, cough runs or three trips to the grocers in less than an hour for the 16th, 17th and 18th bottles of Russian making, pickling causing vinegar — and that was just during my human oven months. Sure, I could complain that he couldn’t keep a good thing going or rejoice that he finally let us change it for the better, but inadvertently I stole his triumphant day, his first Father’s Day, and made it about me. That’s for 8 hours of labor, bucko.

I jest. I was blessed with the ability to literally pop out an 8-pound man child in barely no time at all — but look at me, I’m stealing the spot light again. We’re here for the four best words — my new favorite words (unless we could some how include vanilla bean — oh wait, I have — and brown butter — I’m sure there is a way!), and admittedly my husband’s as well:  1. Salted.  2. Bourbon.  3. Caramel.  4 .Sauce. It’s no joke. It’s the best. It’s mine. Until you make it and invite me over. Then it will be mine again.

Continued over here »

Continued over here »

I really had intended to share this with you last week, but my husband (I don’t believe I’ve told you how amazing he is yet) decided to surprise me by whisking me away to New York City for the weekend. During our 56 hour stay in the city we learned a few things: traffic lanes are mere suggestions — after all it is a whole heckuva lot more fun to play chicken while in a cab, then while out. You think you’ve seen/been around/can tolerate a large crowd of people, then you enter Times Square and your reality is shattered. Sometimes cabbies have no idea where “The Met” is, or “Central Park” and will need you to guide them, or give them a street address, because, seriously, central park has been relocated about five times in the last year and the met, well, they think you’re talking baseball.

For the times when we were not resting our poor feet we walked, walked, walked and walked some more, walking until our feet were lifeless nubs, stopping occasionally at a French chocolatier, where we were tempted to buy a $40 box of pale pink mini macaroons filled with chocolate, or pay $75 a pound for some caramel filled chocolates, but decided to press on to Levain bakery who won a throw down against Bobby Flay. They are famous for their muffin sized cookies that must weight at least half a pound each. There was also an impromptu lunch at Balthazr’s, which was exactly like their little red cookbook, and the bakery attached had fresh breads, pastries, brownies and, well, we tried to not get carried away because we also gluttonously downed two frozen hot chocolates in one sitting.

Continued over here »

For an ice cream connoisseur, I am rather picky. I prefer vanilla over chocolate, I prefer my ice cream uncontaminated from additions like fruit or nuts, though an occasional swirl of caramel or dollop of fudge is acceptable. Loaded ice cream is not my first choice, I’d rather experience ice cream without the brownie bites or the moose track cups or the cookie chunks. I like to get down to the basics. A smooth, creamy concoction of one pure and flawless flavor is my favorite.

And that is where chocolate ice cream comes into the picture. Besides fitting the bill for being an anti-healthy meal before I go healthy, chocolate ice cream is one of my top five favorite ice cream flavors. To most this might seem ordinary and just plain boring, but to me it was shocking. Me? Chocolate? The two of us don’t really mix. I usually find chocolate too sweet or too bitter or too strong. It usually is over powering with a rich flavor and I end up only being able to take a bite before my mouth becomes overwhelmed.

Continued over here »