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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I’m sure by now you readers are tired of me talking about naps, lack of energy and meal-less weeks because I’ve been, well, exhausted, but I’m afraid if I don’t make my constant excuse I would only have one thing left to talk about: my husband reenacting the five minute squirrel sequence he saw out his office window the other day — proving that we are clearly not ready to be parents or even interact with this superior race of humans. Despite these word lacking charade-esque conversations, I have had a sudden attack of revitalized energy, which is probably what a normal person feels like, except I’ve been without it for so long the tiniest morsel has sent me off the edge as I have begun scrubbing and reorganizing every nook and cranny of our living space in a feverish attempt to get things clean and pristine before welcoming a little bundle that will look a little too much like us (sorry kid).

Again, probably not the story you want to hear, but it does at least mean we got a hot meal that I now get to discuss. So pot pie, it is perhaps one of my more favorite dinners except this husband of mine had, once upon a time, long, long ago, a pot pie shell that was underbaked and raw and was “apparently forced” to choke this horrible thing down. Which basically meant he had me sign a prenup stating I would never make a pot pie for as long as we live and thus we started our marriage blissful, happy and pot pie-less. Thing is, I believe in the power of genetics. My dad, he is a cereal man. No, I mean, he is like made of cereal. I’ve heard legends of 10-bowl cereals sessions, Grand Canyon sized mixing bowls full of milk covered flakes for his immediate after dinner top off — and well, I sort of inherited this genetic malfunction. I really should think about buying stock in General Mills, but, this is not about cereal. It is about pot pie. My dad also has an addiction to puff pastry topped stews and, well, it has passed on to me as I seem to be addicted as well, only letting myself fall into the temptation of eating one while at a restaurant because of this stupid prenup I had to sign.

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This dinner idea was formed over a year ago when my mother invited me along to her yearly fall fair tradition. We spent all day dodging in and out of tents, braving the cold wind only when we needed to get to point B and spent the rest of our time eating caramel and nut covered apples and and gulping hot coffee (or cider for those of us opposed to the black addiction in our pre-punch days). The leaves were already shades of burgundy and gold, floating to the ground and letting themselves crunch beneath our feet, but girls must be girls and the cold October wind got the better of us by lunch and we called it a day after we ducked in to a local tavern were I unhesitatingly ordered their mushroom and leek lasagna.

Normally I would pick through the underwhelming red sauced, ricotta cheesed, noodled layer concoction they label as lasagna. I would drum up ways to improve the dry texture or increase the flavor, as the basics of onion and garlic seem to be non-present or lacking in some. It was the way I got through; the way I justified spending $12 on a plate of ehhh. But as you all know (and could probably guess by the eleven mushroom entries in the index) you could pretty much say anything you want about a dish but I will still give it a chance if it has mushrooms.

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I know I do a lot of bragging on these here pages. Not that I’m trying to rub it in that my husband wanted to take me along on his business trip to the land down under (right after we went to Hawaii for Christmas, of course) or swept me off my feet for our anniversary or decided that the title of winner was enough as he gave me his March madness winnings after a lucky educated guess with UConn, meaning he bought for me with his prize booty this gorgeous fourteen-pound darling:

Isn’t it beautiful? Its deep eggplant (or aubergine for those of the French persuasion) enameled finish, black cast iron interior, lidded with special basting spikes, and metal knob are only a few of the beauties I sigh with love over (it even came with a french-flagged stab ribbon, which really exudes a deep, love-struck sigh, and a love pat and renewed dedication to cook all things french (read: butter and wine infused)). So I decided today, I was not going to brag, or wave my awesome better half in your face and say na-na-na-na-na, look at this awesome man who picked me and not you someone else. Because that would be unkind, and well, I’m sure you have a great man (or woman) in your life who makes you smile from ear to ear and tingle all over with love (not to get sappy here, but this year has been fantastic, and well, fantastic life means I get all lovey dovey and gush oozey sappy things, my apologies).

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I’ve done a lot of scary things over the last year, and hopefully I have been able to vanquish your fear of delicate phyllo, fresh pasta, yeasty oven baked bread, chicken dismantling, and pancakes, but souffles, my dear readers, have a whole heackuva lot of us shaking in our boots (I’m assuming you’re in my boat too.) A few weeks ago I figured it would be “fun” to conquer some fears in the kitchen. Partly due to being more cost effective, partly because I want to be fearless, knowing that I have the capability to do anything I need to, like severing chicken thighs or sticking the pointy end of my knife in that lobster’s head, alright, maybe I haven’t done that one yet, I don’t think I’m ready to be a murderer.

But as much as I would like to hang up my apron, give myself a pat on the back and pretend that my butcher project was enough for me to feel completely confident and satisfied in my kitchen skills, I cannot. I read words like souffle and think, “Ugh, but they are so fickle.” or cheesecake and immediately associate it with the words soggy, wet and mushy or read the instructions to place your knife in the head of the lobster and my eyes start to well up with tears because, it’s alive, squirming  and looking at me and there will be blood, and eww, gross, brains — I don’t think I could possibly do that.

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