To be completely honest, there are times when I am my own worst enemy in the kitchen. I find recipes that sound perfect and are photographed impeccably, and they give me culinary epiphanies where I realize this will be the greatest dish ever and I have to make this immediately, but then I continue reading and discover countless comments claiming the recipe to be a garbage worthy failure. And yet I think I can beat this, I can make this recipe into the jewel it is supposed to be. And, inevitably, I find I cannot beat this. I cannot make this recipe into the jewel it is supposed to be.

Oh, I still try. Despite repeated failures, I still try to fix it. Occasionally I win, usually I throw in the towel. This past month, I have barely made one recipe that works correctly and tastes wonderful because I seem to keep picking/being drawn to the duds. Then I look back on the week and realize I fed my family unsaveable disasters (if they’re lucky), or, in many cases nothing.

As with most things I had to go full circle. We went out to a little French Cafe for lunch a few weeks ago and in my stubbornness I ordered duck confit, absolutely positive it would be superior to my husband’s humble quiche lorraine. It’s duck people. It’s the best. It’s posh snobbery, like the French do so well, and snubs its nose at such things as diced up ham and softened leeks in a shell of egg custard. I mean really.

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This week has been brutally cold and windy. Which makes me sad, very sad. Winter has been great — it brought the biggest cheese ever — yet I’m ready for it to be over. I reach this point every January, after the holidays have gone, and there is no lingering celebrations with family or friends trying to drag out the merriment for as long as possible, and the point has been reached today. I’m done. There is nothing left to look forward to in the remaining winter weeks, except my four year anniversary — and really the husband and I have discussed picking a totally random day, like May 19th or October 8th or another day where it is not hard to come by a dinner reservation, or enjoy one anothers company in the middle of a crowd as we just had to pick, ahem, I had to pick the day of hearts and roses to get hitched.

Spring is now in the forefront of my mind, a time that will bring actually ripe fruits and vegetables instead of the hot house and imported varieties from other countries. But with spring comes color, flower buds that eventually turn vibrant yellow, or tiny green sprouts of grass that shoot up into a thick carpet. And the sun, it melts the gray filled days of a dead and unappealing winter away.

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Well folks, it’s officially 2012 and my ubber gracious and fantastic friends have deemed me capable enough to get back into the kitchen without the aid of their promised meals. (Yes, I brought it on myself, really.) But for the past two and a half weeks I have been amazed at all the delicious meals Josh and I have chowed down on, most notably a creamy parmesan shrimp risotto brought to us last week and something I have not stopped thinking about since.

Now, I don’t believe in giving up anything one enjoys, especially if it involves cheese, but because I have been thrown to the sharks of the nightly ritual of dinner, I decided to start the New Year and its night-time meal with risotto. I know, I know three days after Resolution Day is not the best time to bring up creamy, cheesy, bacon-sprinkled rice dishes, but be thankful that I decided the chocolate chip cookie kick — more like marathon — I have been on has not yet shown up on these pages (as I’m sure any day now I will crack and bake up a batch and thus cause you to stumble over warm, gooey, slightly melted chocolate chip studded cookies).

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I am dancing on my tippy toes at the moment hoping and praying that spring will finally get here. The weather is fluctuating like crazy, 60s then 40s, 50s then 30s then 60s again. The sun has come out to play –  I think it was in hiding for the last 3 months, seriously, the sun hibernates in winter, did no one tell you? But just yesterday the sun did not go down until after 5:30, that’s progress right there. Eventually the nights will get hot and sticky and it will seem as if you are going to bed when it is still light outside — yes, I do think and long for these things, especially when my thermostat registers the “house high” at a chilly 62-degrees.

Or perhaps my spring longing started after receiving my Bon Appetit magazine, well the BA email preceded the magazine, but in both I spotted the same deliciously spring-green colored soup that looked full of promises of tulips and daisies — I need hope here people, remember the thermostat. Now, I know what you all must be thinking, that I am a toothless hillbilly that can only suck down soups that have been boiled and pureed down to the same mush form that toddlers eat, and I don’t think I could blame you seeing as this is the fourth out of six soups I have made this winter that require the use of a blender.

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After spending copious amounts of my time in the kitchen instead of doing the laundry or brushing my hair I wanted to have a dinner that for once, did not take me an hour or two to prepare, cook and eat. I’m not a huge fan of the big 30-minute meals going around, I like to take time with my food. I enjoy chopping and mincing and sauteing; I find it therapeutic. Sliding my big mammoth chef’s knife through things — by which I mean food — always gets rid of any frustration and anger management problems I’ve had that particular day — I thought that was normal, no?

But with a much needed foot massage, that will most likely never happen because I am too ticklish I wanted to whip something up that was not only easy on my poor feet but also a bit healthier than the excessive amount of cake we’ve consumed this past week, not to mention all the other party food. This tart is chocked full of vegetables — four leeks and a bunch of Swiss chard — and gives me an excuse to use my tart pan with which I have fallen in love. So I say it’s a win-win — just ignore the whole cup of cheese, but don’t skip it!

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