On occasion, I am a genius. I scheduled a “preemptive strike” injection on March 6th juuuuuuust in case, knowing I needed to be in heels a few weeks later and, VOILA! Turns out I do, indeed, need it next week. It’s probably the cold weather and all the leftover aggravation from moving, bending, unpacking, etc., but… here we are again.
I made a recipe last night that didn’t go well. I can’t create recipes from scratch, but I’m damn good at locating good ones that can be great with some tweaking. So, missing the mark is frustrating. This happens rarely, but it’s always surprising and I always feel badly when it does. I’ve gotten to where I menu-plan fairly tightly during the week, and having a meal completely blown feels like I (a) wasted money, and (b) let people down. These things are recoverable, obviously, after all, this is why peanut butter and bread exists, but, still.
My achiles heel in the kitchen is, apparently, anything involving a baked egg, which aggravates me to no end because there are so many great dishes out there. And really? COME ON. Although I’d argue that one of the greatest test of a cook is how they handle eggs (scrambled, for sure) – baked eggs seems to be a challenge for me.
[Barney Stinson voice] CHALLENGE: ACCEPTED.
This happened. And Christine made me cry.
It’s Rodeo time here in Houston! That means if you have a meeting anywhere in the medical center, or near Reliant, the air smells like barbecue thanks to the largest cookoff in the world. It also means traffic today as you share the freeway with trail riders heading in. It also means boots, and jeans, and the carnival, and carnival FOOD, and the livestock show, and concerts, and Howdy!, and a whole bunch of kids that end up with scholarships – and those are great things.
I wish I could take you. You’d smell like mesquite and dirt and hay and beer and denim and leather and tradition for days. Breathe deeply. It’s what joy smells like.
Wishing you a wonderful weekend – and, if it involves ribs and a grill or smoker (which is so should), don’t forget to lick your fingers. It’s BBQ law. xo