I'm typing to you large and in charge from business class on my flight to JFK. Yes, it would seem that my August Humble-Pie-a-polooza is off to a pretty great beginning. I mean there's pomegranate hand soap in the lavatory, for shizsakes. That alone was worth waking up at 4.30am and having the Supershuttle driver text while he drove the entire expanse to LAX with the A/C off. Though it was kind of like a little eastern european adventure all its own, with his smoking outside the van, crappy attitude and the general pre-dawn steam bath ambiance.

If I had thought, even for a second, that the slightest hint of a possibility of an upgrade existed for me, I may have passed on the $15 La Brea Bakery panini I bought right before I got to the gate. But as it is, I've had two fat breakfasts and a bloody mary (two turntables and a microphone!) before 10am and there's wifi and a footrest and a tablecloth and I must look like the biggest rube ever to fly taking pictures and grinning ear-to-ear like I just won the flipping lottery. It's like I've never even seen a plane before. It's no surprise that the guy next to me gave me the side eye an hour ago and is pretending not to speak English.

I was sitting in my coach seat when the flight attendant came to my seat, and, addressing me using the very proper sounding "Ms. McClure" (is my stepmother in the row behind me?), told me that I had been given a seat up front. It must be a good omen for what I'm sure is going to be an anxious few weeks for me, right? But here's the thing, I can't help but remember the other times I've been unexpectedly upgraded on my out-bound flights and how those trips kind of blew up in my face.

I have made it through my first week in Umbria, having suffered through a mild case of jet lag and uncomfortable travel shoes, to find myself relaxed, no longer pronouncing my Italian “gi” as two syllables and with a gullet continuously full of Prosecco and Chianti. This would probably mean that getting out the post about the last stateside soupapaloooza! from TWO weeks ago is kind of important so I can move on to the really fun Italy stuff like handsome famous butchers and hand forged copper pots; both of these things appealing to the true inner geek in me. But I would not be doing anyone any favors if I failed to mention the delicious American soup and the great party that we had back at the loft so many time zones ago.

I’ve never been a huge fan of corn. My mom, the Tiny Dancer, loves it and prepared it all the time when I was little, but I hated the way the silks would get caught between my teeth and there was something that, to me, seemed so undignified about the sloppiness of nibbling it off the cob. I was a fairly persnickety kid, shocking, I know. I also hated the way she considered corn a vegetable, which it kind of is not. “Kind of” because it’s a crop that is usually harvested to be dried and made into a grain, though the fresh corn we eat is technically vegetable because of how we eat it. It’s still sugary as all get out and I consider it more of a grain, and grains and sugars have a tendency to make me kind of grumpy, which no one needs to be around to see. I’ve generally steered away from the corn vendors at the street fairs and at places like Café Habana in New York despite their tremendous gravitational force.

blueberry drop biscuit cobbler and buttermilk ice cream: Bon Appetit, badass upgrade

white corn with poblano cream puree: LAX CDG BLQ (updating in umbria)

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.