I almost snuggled down, well prepared to drift off, without completing my daily task! Tsk. I spent a good portion of the evening on the phone with a dear friend, certainly a kindred spirit, and I suppose our roving conversation gave me the sensation of already having shared plenty for the night. But I shan't neglect my dear reader, even if it is just a short, drivelly portrait of my current state.
I'm snuggled down, listening to Hvarf/Heim by Sigur Ros, inhaling a candle that is scented with tomato leaf and fennel. Fresh and green-smelling. Speaking of produce, and speaking of food, and speaking of cooking, the magazine I hold in my lap (for which I was nearly ready to forsake my loving audience) is none other than the lackluster, sub-par, poor excuse for a food rag: Bon Appetit. (I hereby and forthwith and in all other manner apologize to any aficionados or lovers of this periodical.) It's just that I have a major bone to pick with the powers that be who stole away my Gourmet and replaced it with this sad, uninspired alternative (That would be YOU, stinky old Conde Nast!!). This story needs to be written, and it shall be, but tonight's not the night. I have, in fact, been putting it off since October. It's of too great an importance and has much too deep and personal implications to be spouted off in a few late night paragraphs. So now I'll leave you and return to my regularly scheduled reading about Eggplant Parmesan (so yawn), Beef Stroganoff (so grandpa) and Key Lime Tarts (so 1987).
Dear Gourmet, how I miss you so.