It's lucky I didn't get married when by all rights I should have, during that time known as the Donna Martin decade, aka the 1990s. I might be embarrassed now when I would have looked back at the wedding VHS and realized that "our" song was "Wonderwall" and that all the wedding pictures showcased a drastic blood-red-blunt-bang Vidal Sassoon breakup dye job and cut (it took about three years to grow that mess into that strawberry banana lifesaver stage). Hell, I might even be embarrassed that the reception, most likely thrown at the La Luz de Jesus gallery in Silverlake had offered a backdrop of pin up girls, Weegee photographs and Day of the Dead figurines. And that I listened to Weezer at least 478 times as I hand stamped each invitation ("What's with these homies dissing my girl/ Why do they gotta front?"). I have imagined the scenario probably a hundred or more times over the years, when I was asked to be a bridesmaid or I saw another friend's wedding pictures on Facebook, even when I was six or seven and playing around with my friends. THIS is what my wedding, my big day, is going to look like, and it will be beautiful. Every single detail was imagined and remained as I got older and my tastes changed and the styles of everything around me changed, too, but I was never able to picture one key element:

the groom.

Seriously, even when I was dating someone seriously (and there were quite a few during the 1990s, sorry for partying), I couldn't see the guy, period. Not a body, not a face, not a single distinguishing feature. I'm quite sure that had I been in therapy during any of those imaginative times, the shrink would have had much to say about this.

Maybe most girls are like this, planners and re-planners of this rite of passage, I really don't know, but I think there is something inherently wrong with me. I mean there are many, many things wrong with me, let's not kid ourselves, but maybe if you don't ever see yourself marrying someone when you imagine, oh I don't know, MARRYING someone, you should work on developing other dreams for your life. Like writing a food blog.

This site has been a chronicle of my Amazing Middle Aged Peter Pan Angst(™), and if you've read any of it before today (I know there are at least two of you) you are probably keenly aware that there has been much of it. There has also been silence for more than a year, and I would like to explain, just in case you've felt a gaping hole in your soul.

Not that you asked or anything, but you may have noticed a slight blip in the normal schedule of revealing my neuroses and recipe offerings. Well, I have been working. As in a j-o-b, as much as I've been avoiding that three letter word for at least a decade or more.

I suppose it's not really a job because I'm helping out an old friend who opened a beautiful luxury goods emporium in downtown LA and I have fun every single day. But technically, it's a place of business and I go there for many, many many hours a week and it has greatly cut into the time I devote to grousing. Maybe everyone actually wins in this situation...

Sooooo, I'm getting back on track with the cooking and I have a serious backlog of delicious things I've made over the last couple of months. I'm hoping that if I construct some serious system of rewards and punishments I'll be back on the regular as fast as you can say, "Baby needs new shoes and will get a pair if she gets her shit together". Things to look forward to: huevos sort-of rancheros with chorizo, the perfect Caesar salad (I don't lie), salad lyonnaise, breakfast bacon fregola and some food porn from a beautiful Sunday supper at Magical Merlin's hideaway.

Until then, here are some preview pictures of the latest kitchen triumphs and disappointments, or as I like to call them, my children. I hope you check back for their companion recipes in the coming days and weeks. Until then...

Soup on!

So The Random Hausfrau dropped by for a short visit a couple of weeks ago, and she brought her really spirited three year old daughter with her. I'm already Auntie Mame to two cool kids, but they're almost teenagers now and their parents (my brother and sister in law) were smart enough to not entrust me with the precious lives of their offspring when they were young (too bad I can be an even badder influence now that they're still impressionable and that I can do some real serious awesome damage-- watch out for The Clash mp3s I'm sending Connor). So even though I'm an experienced Auntie, I've never actually hosted a "little" for such a long stretch, and certainly not in my death trap of a loft. Not gonna lie, I was really, really worried, though not worried enough to, oh I don't know, child proof anything at all in my industrial space. I'm so thoughtful like that.

Anyway, my main concern was making sure the little didn't expire from hunger, and I needed a pretend reason to make hotdog tatertots, so I did. And The Frau and I ate about three dozen each and the little had exactly two, as in one, two. But whatever, maybe good taste isn't genetic. Picky littles be damned, I made an extra batch of these and froze them to keep as last minute bites when unexpected grown up people show up, though I'm very thankful that I don't know any of those and can keep all of them for myself.

It’s complicated with Facebook and me.

On the one hand, I absolutely adore Facebook. I love that it allows me to stalk other people with such a peripatetic grace and ease. I love that I can peek into the not-so-secret nooks and crannies of other people’s often carefully curated versions of themselves. I love that Facebook is proof of Pavlov, that every time I see a little red number at the top of my status bar I'm reminded that I am NOT ALONE in my love of grumpy cat/ appreciation of an indie music video/ alignment of political belief, so much so that I salivate. Really. It’s kind of gross proof, but it’s proof nonetheless.

And then there’s this thing I do with Facebook, an automatic response, actually, to certain posts that I find offensive or dull-witted, that I like to call the digital eye roll. It's shameful but I love it. I’m almost certain I’m not alone in this, and though it’s not a very nice thing for me to talk about out loud, I’m totally subject to the basest of my instincts despite all my namastes and protestations to the contrary. Trust me, if I could sat nam my way out of being a bit of a bitch, I totally would, but alas, I cannot.

Here’s what makes my eyes roll involuntarily: masters of the humble brag (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE), and posts that ask others to withhold judgement. Really, isn’t the whole point in posting something to be judged, so the little red number pops up in the status bar and we salivate? Isn’t that what we’re asking for when we post vacation/ baby/ cat pictures/ political rants/ links to our annoying blog that we want you to read and participate in, a judgement? Facebook is 100% about this-- we are begging people for a reaction, and we don't get to ask for only a positive one. You don’t get approval without disapproval in the same way you can’t expect to be all things to all people. It’s simply an unnatural impossibility.

I actually find the judgement of it all kind of refreshing in this regard.

I don't just think it's Spring, I KNOW it's Spring because peas showed up at the farmer's market at Larchmont on Sunday, along with Reza from Bravo's "Shahs of Sunset", but that's another emergency breakthrough altogether.

Simple. Sweet. Beautiful. Delicious. And I'm not just talking about Reza's mustache.

It's a shame that many of us grew up at a time when the only peas we ever saw on our plates were from a can, because I wouldn't even look at a pea until I was well into adulthood. Now I can't get enough of them; the bright color, the sweetness and the heralding of good weather are only a few reasons why they make a really attractive appetizer.

serrano split pea with fried pancetta: splitting the difference

the latest break in programming brought to you by Guerrilla Atelier

hot dog tatertots: I'm so not above pimping out my awesome friend's cute kid if it gets me lots of hits AND I get to eat little pillows of deliciousness

buttermilk waffles with blueberry compote: It's complicated in my relationship with Facebook

pea and mint crostini: we interrupt this program with news that Spring has sprung!

Why? Because soup is cheap, delicious and easy. Kind of like me.

a weekly attempt to eat well and to savor life. or to see how much food I can get on my clothes.