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 over here, day five in this horrible business of being sick. I don’t think anyone quite prepared me fully on how awful a thing it is to be quarantined away from your loved ones — especially the freshly trimmed blondie you spent almost a week away from — or the even more pitiful qualm of needing to be quarantined but cannot be because, well, you’re mom and how else is the laundry going to be folded, runny noses wiped or your little house going to continue chugging along in a somewhat peaceful manner.

Thankfully we’re slowly on the mend and hopefully I won’t be down for much longer. But while I am here, lazily in bed trying to ration out my last few aloe-veraed ultra soft puffs and sip my quickly depleting mug of hot tea I thought I would take a moment to tell you about some really great soup. I think tomato soup is something everyone should have in their arsenal of go-to recipes, which is odd because only recently, err when I made it from scratch, did I ever begin to question the sincerity of my former favorite: condensed tomato soup. Yes, I was a lover of the canned tomato soup — the kind that required two things: water and a bowl. It’s what I grew up on, it’s what I was familiar with and when nostalgia and the only frame of reference to base tomato soup upon is what you like and prefer, well, there’s a phrase: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. To me, it was unbroken. It was what I liked. And though my husband violently opposed such beloved affection I was set out to make him love it.

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It’s on days like today, when the sun decides the world is not worthy of its rays leaving us destitute with the bitter cold, I overdose on green things. Whether it be a plastic black cup with a lone brisk stalk holding up an over sized non-seasonal daisy or a chunky vegetable I presume to loathe, I need something in the bleak of winter to get me through the chest-aching 25-and-below degree days January always punishes us with.

Usually I spend the beginning part of every year (like this part, right now) coming down with a bad case of cabin fever. And I get it bad. I’m stir crazy, severely vitamin D deficient and a complete nut case — just ask my husband. He came home last week from a business trip to an entirely rearranged house and a room full of sealed boxes ready to be sent off to storage. His things, yes, they are gone. Thrown away. It’s what I do. It’s how I cope. Come save us all. Because if I don’t throw away the excessive amount of (what I’m now told were) receipts and random scribbled notes from the desk void of its owner, then I would have to step outside and do normal things, like get the mail or take out the trash. And let me sum up quickly what would happen to me if I actually did those things: I would die. My inner core would succumb to the air so dry, so cold it forces what feels like a thousand knives into my chest making it ache like I’m having a heart attack until, well, I actually do have a heart attack. So the complaints I get about this clean desk being, umm clean, is really my way of showing him I have serious self-preservation skills, meaning I’m still around to cook. But I hate to air out our little quarrels my surmounting life problems (did I mention teething? We’re doing that over here too…), so back to what I was saying previously:

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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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For the past week my mouth has been drowning in soft foods. I guess I don’t need to specify “with ice cream”, as you all know me well enough by now to know that is what I mean. Ice cream with an occasional jello-whipped cream parfait top off to be even more specific. My wisdom tooth excavation was last week and as expected the IV was the worst part. You see I’m a little (read: more than any other person you will meet in 500 life times) needle phobic. My husband makes this the main point of his argument against the litter of kids I would like to have, but I digress. We are still in negotiations on what that number will be. For now, we will just say litter (I’m winning).

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